I nearly bled out shielding a stranger’s six-year-old son from flying glass—then the boy screamed “Papa,”

“Down!”

Damian moved faster than human thought.

His hand clamped onto my shoulder, dragging me violently from the chair down to the hardwood floor. He threw his body over mine, his massive frame shielding me entirely, his weight pressing me into the rug just as a second round struck the glass.

*CRACK.*

The bullet didn't penetrate the reinforced glass, but the force sent spiderwebs spreading across the entire frame. The alarms blared—a deep, rhythmic wail that echoed throughout the stone corridors. Red emergency lights flickered to life, bathing the dining room in a blood-red haze.

“Luca!” I screamed against Damian’s chest.

“He’s in the interior vault with Marco!” Damian’s voice was dead calm, terrifyingly cold amidst the chaos. “Stay flat. Do not lift your head.”

He reached beneath his jacket, pulling a customized black semi-automatic pistol from his shoulder holster. He clicked the safety off with his thumb, his eyes locked on the shattered window.

Heavy boots pounded outside. The dining room doors burst open, and three tactical guards armed with submachine guns poured into the room, forming a wall between us and the window.

“Sniper on the ridge!” one shouted. “Thermal shows a two-man spotter team five hundred yards south!”

“Return fire with the perimeter turrets,” Damian commanded, his voice cutting through the sirens like a blade. “Do not let them leave the tree line. I want them alive.”

“Yes, Boss!”

Damian looked down at me. Our faces were inches apart. My heart was slamming against my ribs like a caged bird, my fingers dug deeply into the fabric of his shirt.

“Are you hit?” he demanded, his hands quickly skimming down my ribs, checking the wound, ensuring no glass or shrapnel had torn my flesh again.

“No... no, I’m okay,” I gasped, trembling uncontrollably.

His dark eyes softened for an instant, his palm cupping the back of my head to pull me closer against his chest. “You’re safe. I have you.”

The shooting stopped outside within ninety seconds. The distant rattle of automated suppressors died down, replaced by the crackle of tactical radios.

Marco appeared in the doorway, his face pale beneath the red emergency lights. “Ridge is clear, Boss. Spotter is dead. The shooter took a round to the leg, but swallowed a cyanide capsule before the dogs reached him.”

Damian rose smoothly, pulling me up with him, never letting go of my arm. His jaw was set in granite.

“Clean it up,” Damian said. “And bring me his rifle.”

“Boss...” Marco hesitated, casting an uneasy glance at me. “There’s something else.”

“Speak.”

“The round wasn't standard military surplus. It was tungsten-tipped, custom-milled. It came from the armory at the Belmont docks.”

Damian’s eyes dilated.

The Belmont docks were not controlled by the Rossi family. They were the primary shipping hub of the Vescari empire—secured, managed, and patrolled exclusively by Damian’s own men.

Someone inside his organization had supplied the weapon.

The silence that followed was more terrifying than the sniper’s bullet.

Damian slowly walked toward the shattered window. The red light caught the harsh lines of his profile, turning him into a sculpture of vengeance. He reached out and touched the fractured glass where the bullet had failed to break through.

“A rat in my own house,” he whispered, his voice barely louder than the hum of the air conditioner.

I stood by the table, clutching my side, watching the transformation. The protective man who had held me against the floor was gone. In his place stood the monster the city feared.

He turned back toward Marco. “Assemble the captains. All six of them. Tonight.”

“Sir, the police—”

“The police do not exist tonight, Marco,” Damian snapped, his voice dropping into an icy abyss. “Tell the captains that anyone who fails to arrive at the lakehouse by midnight will be hunted down and butchered in their homes. And tell them to bring their ledgers.”

Marco swallowed hard, nodding once before rushing out of the room.

Damian walked toward me. The scent of gunpowder and cold autumn air lingered around him. He stopped two feet away, looking down at my pale, trembling frame.

“You asked if you were a prisoner, Emma,” he said quietly, his eyes dark with an unreadable storm. “Tonight, you will see why I locked the gates. Because if the rot is inside my own foundation, there is no place on this earth that is safe for you or my son.”

He reached out, his warm, scarred fingers gently brushing the side of my neck, lingering over my pulse.

“Go to the vault with Luca. You don't leave that room until I open the door myself. Do you understand me?”

I looked into his eyes—eyes that held the weight of a violent, bloody empire—and for the first time, I didn't see a mob boss. I saw a man fighting with every fiber of his being to keep the only things he loved from burning to ash.

“Be careful, Damian,” I whispered.

His hand paused against my neck. His thumb lightly grazed my lower lip.