The sharp buzz of his phone shattered the silence.
Damon stirred first, the weight of morning crawling over his bare back like a slow shadow. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, skin, and something darker—his claim, etched deep into every bruise he'd left on her body.
The phone vibrated again on the nightstand.
He shifted carefully, mindful not to wake her. Alina lay curled beside him like a rabbit, fragile and folded into herself. Her back was to him, bare and marked, her breath soft, even. Asleep.
With a sigh, he reached past her and grabbed the phone.
Adrion.
He answered with a rough, quiet, "Yeah?"
> "Damon," Adrion's voice came sharp and cold. "I need you here."
Damon exhaled, eyes narrowing.
> "It's Caleb. He's not cooperating. Worse—he's trafficking women. Teen girls. He's running a whole network behind our backs. This one... he needs your kind of handling."
Damon sat up, his spine tense, knuckles whitening around the phone.
> "I've set up a meeting. Tomorrow night. Italy. Don't be late."
The line went dead.
For a moment, Damon just sat there in the silence, staring at the black screen, the rage already simmering beneath his skin.
Then he turned his gaze to her.
Alina hadn't moved. Still curled, her cheek resting on one hand, hair spilled over her shoulder in tangled waves. Her lips were swollen from the night before—kissed too much, bitten too hard. Her skin, flushed and warm, still bore his fingerprints like petals bruised by too much love.
He reached out and touched her cheek gently.
She stirred, eyelids fluttering open. Her lashes lifted.
"Damon?" she whispered, voice hoarse with sleep.
He leaned in and brushed his lips against her temple.
> "Go back to sleep," he murmured, barely louder than breath.
She blinked, slow and soft, and slipped under again.
But Damon remained awake.
Because there were monsters waiting in Italy.
And he was one of them.
The sun hadn't risen yet.
Just a faint grey glow bleeding into the sky, painting the edges of the room in soft silver. Damon sat at the edge of the bed, fully dressed now—black shirt, black soul.
He watched her sleep a moment longer.
Alina.
The chaos and calm in one breath.
The girl who clung to him in the dark, without realizing he was the shadow wrapped around her throat.
He stood, silent, and reached for his watch on the nightstand.
Then her fingers brushed his.
He froze.
"Where are you going?" Her voice was a murmur, blurred with sleep.
Damon looked down.
She was still half-asleep, eyes barely open, hair mussed, cheek creased from the pillow. The sheet had slipped down, exposing her shoulder—marked with his teeth, his hands, his want.
"I have to handle something baby," he said quietly. "Business."
She blinked slowly, her brow knitting. "So early?"she rubbed her eyes like a kid.
He smiled faintly and sat beside her again, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "It's nothing for you to worry about Alina."
She reached for his hand, her fingers wrapping around his wrist like she could tether him there. "Stay a little longer."
That nearly undid him.
He leaned in, pressing a slow, reverent kiss to her lips. It wasn't hunger this time. It wasn't possession.
It was goodbye.
For now.
"I'll be back before you miss me."
"You're already missed," she whispered, barely audible.
He didn't answer.
Didn't dare.
Because how could he tell her the truth? That he was going to put a bullet between a monster's eyes and not blink? That the blood on his hands wouldn't wash off before he touched her again?
Instead, he kissed her forehead. Stood. And turned away before she could see the war in his eyes.
By the time the door clicked shut behind him, Alina had drifted back to sleep.
And Damon was already slipping into a darker skin—the one she would never be allowed to see.
He flew to Italy in his private jet.
Florence, Italy – Midnight
The sky above the city bled into black velvet, thick clouds swallowing the stars. A wind crept through the old stone streets—carrying with it the scent of rot, of wine, of something worse.
Damon stepped out of the matte-black car without a word. The cold kissed his skin, but his blood burned hotter than hellfire. He could smell it in the air before Adrion even spoke.
Trafficking.
That stink clung to places like this—abandoned wineries turned into hunting grounds. And Damon knew it well. Once, it had clung to him too.
But not anymore.
Now, he was the reckoning.
Adrion stood near the rusted gates, a cigarette burning between his fingers, the red ember flaring like a warning.
"You came quick," he said, voice low.
"You said girls," Damon replied. No warmth. Just truth.
Adrion's jaw tightened. "Teenagers. Drugged. Some of them don't even know what country they're in."
Damon's knuckles cracked as his fists clenched. He didn't need more details.
He just needed Caleb.
Adrion nodded toward the cellar doors. "He's inside. Thought you might want to handle this one yourself."
"I do," Damon said.
And he walked.
No guards tried to stop him. They knew better.
He moved like shadow—like judgment made flesh.
The cellar doors opened with a groan.
And there he was.
Caleb.
Slick suit. Slick smile. Puffing a cigar with the same hand he'd once used to chain a girl to a rusted bed.
"Damon," he said, as if they were equals. "Didn't think you'd come in person."
"I like to watch men die slowly," Damon replied. Calm. Icy. Honest.
Caleb smirked. "What, no goons? No dramatics? Just you?"
Damon stepped inside. Closed the door behind him.
Click.
Lock engaged.
"I don't need an audience," he said.
He was on Caleb before the man even registered the shift.
A fist to the gut—hard, sharp, surgical. Caleb crumpled, gasping.
A second strike, this time to the ribs. Bone cracked beneath Damon's gloved knuckles.
Then—he grabbed Caleb by the collar and slammed him into a pillar.
"Do you remember her name?" Damon whispered.
Caleb blinked, wheezing. "Wh-who?"
"Mariela. Thirteen. You kept her locked up for eight days. She bit through her own tongue trying to scream."
Damon's elbow connected with his jaw—crack—blood splattered across the wall.
He let Caleb fall.
But not for long.
He crouched beside him, blade in hand. Thin. Black. Serrated.
Caleb's eyes widened. "No—wait—wait—"
"I told you," Damon said. "I don't do mercy."
He grabbed Caleb's wrist. Pinned it with a knee. And then—without a pause—dragged the blade through flesh and bone.
Screams. Real ones. Wet ones.
But Damon didn't flinch.
The second hand took longer.
By the time it was done, Caleb was half-conscious, twitching in a puddle of his own blood. Damon stood slowly, blade dripping, chest rising like a man who hadn't killed—but cleansed.
Adrion stepped in, quiet as a shadow.
"You're done?" he asked.
Damon didn't answer. He just wiped the blade on Caleb's shirt.
Then:
"Hang him in the square."
Adrion raised a brow. "Alive?"
Damon met his eyes, cold as death. "Let the families decide how long he stays that way."
He walked out without looking back.
His coat trailed behind him. His boots echoed like a final judgment.
And in his mind—
Alina.
Her bruised thighs. Her trembling breath. Her trust, still intact.
He hadn't killed for her.
Not exactly.
But he would.
Again. And again.
Until the world that made her afraid was nothing but ashes beneath his feet.
Florence – Hotel Suite, 3:00 A.M.
The shower still ran behind the frosted glass, steam curling into the room like ghosts that wouldn't leave. Damon stood shirtless by the open balcony, cigarette in one hand, the city lights flickering below like fallen stars. Blood—Caleb's—still clung to the edge of his nails. He hadn't cleaned it all off.
He didn't want to.
Not yet.
The door clicked open.
Adrion stepped in, coat damp from the midnight rain, a quiet storm of his own.
"You missed the call earlier," he said, tossing his gloves on the table. "It was Noah."
Damon didn't turn. "Everything alright?"
Adrion poured himself whiskey, exhaling before answering. "Too alright."
That got Damon's attention.
Adrion gave a humorless smile. "He didn't throw a tantrum this time. Didn't cry, didn't ask when I'd come home. Didn't even flinch when Atlanta hung up."
Damon leaned against the balcony doorframe, watching him now.
"He just laughed," Adrion continued. "Laughed and danced around like a mad thing. Full of sugar and sunshine and mischief. Naughty as hell. But happy."
There was a pause—long and quiet.
Then Damon smirked, slow and dark. "He's not missing you."
Adrion chuckled under his breath. "Apparently not."
Damon took a drag of the cigarette. "It's because of her."
Adrion stilled. "…Her?"
"Alina," Damon said without hesitation. "She's been with him. Teaching him. Feeding him. Letting him paint on her arms, fall asleep on her lap. He doesn't need shadows when she's around."
Adrion watched him for a long moment. Something shifted behind his eyes—caution, maybe. Or realization.
"You sound like a man who's not planning to let her go."
Damon didn't speak. Just exhaled smoke through his nose, eyes narrowed on some distant place.
Adrion took a sip of whiskey. "She's soft, Damon. Too soft for this world."
Damon's voice was low, quiet, cold. "That's why I keep her close."
Adrion tilted his head. "Or is it because she's the first thing in your life that doesn't bleed when you touch it?"
That hit deeper than Damon wanted it to.
He didn't answer.
Adrion stepped closer, voice dropping.
"You've burned through women like they were nothing. Used them. Broke them. Forgot them. But with her? You're different. You pause around her. You think."
Still—Damon said nothing.
Adrion set the glass down slowly.
"You love her, don't you?"
The silence that followed was thick. Pressing. Absolute.
Damon turned his back and stubbed out the cigarette on the railing.
"She makes Noah laugh," he said, barely above a whisper. "Even when we don't."
That was all he gave.
Then he walked into the darkness of the suite, leaving Adrion alone with a truth neither of them could afford—but both of them now understood.
The suite was quiet again.
Adrion had left without another word, but his questions still lingered in the air like unshed smoke.
Damon stood alone in the dim light, one hand braced against the wall near the mirror. His reflection looked back at him like a stranger—eyes hollow, jaw clenched, dried blood like a confession beneath his fingernails.
But that wasn't what haunted him.
What haunted him was the way she looked when she slept.
The soft rise and fall of her back.
The quiet trust in her breath.
The way her hand had reached for him in her sleep, even after everything.
Alina.
He whispered her name in his mind like it was a sin he was already paying for.
She made Noah laugh.
She made Damon hesitate.
He didn't know if that made her a weakness or a weapon.
But either way—he was already bleeding.
---
Back at the Mansion – Early Morning
The sun hadn't risen yet, but Noah was already awake—barefoot in his pajamas, curls bouncing as he ran across the hallway with a mischievous grin.
Alina followed behind, barefoot too, hiding around a corner.
"Noah," she called softly, in a sing-song whisper, "where are you, mister?"
A tiny giggle answered her from behind the velvet drapes in the drawing room.
She tiptoed in, biting back a smile.
"Hmmm… maybe he's hiding under the table? Or behind the bookshelves?"
Silence.
Then—
"BOO!"
He jumped out from the curtains, arms flung wide, eyes gleaming with laughter.
Alina gasped dramatically, stumbling back into the chaise.
"You scared me!"
Noah squealed with delight, running straight into her arms. She caught him and spun him gently, both of them laughing as if the world outside didn't exist.
"I win!" he declared proudly.
"Yes, yes, you win," she said, planting a kiss on his forehead. "But now it's my turn to hide."
Noah's eyes went wide. "You're gonna hide?"
She nodded. "But no peeking this time."
He covered his eyes instantly, already counting.
Alina stood up, heart a little fuller than it had been in days. In this house of cold marble and locked doors, she'd found one small corner of warmth.
And in this little boy's laughter, she heard something she hadn't felt in a long time.
Hope.
As she tiptoed down the hallway to hide, a quiet voice whispered in her chest.
He'll take this from you.
And she didn't know if that voice meant Damon.
Or herself.
"One... two... three!"
Noah's voice echoed playfully as Alina dashed down the corridor, barefoot and breathless. She tried every door—locked, locked, locked. Panic bloomed for a second. Her eyes darted.
There.
One door. Slightly open. Just enough.
She slipped inside, hoping to stay hidden.
Then everything changed.
This room was colder. Quieter. Its air felt older. Heavier. She stepped into a space that didn't welcome her—it watched.
The study.
One wall towered with books—legal tomes, case studies, foreign policy, psychological warfare, criminal biographies. Every title reeked of control and power.
Her gaze drifted upward.
A portrait.
Damon.
Painted in cold hues, his eyes darker than she remembered. Watching. Knowing. That sharp, ruthless face seemed more real in silence. She stepped closer, unsure why her heart began to pound.
So this is his room.
Her hip bumped the desk— "Ow—" —and she winced. Her fingers landed on a folder.
No, Alina. Don't. Leave it.
But curiosity whispered louder than caution.
She flipped it open.
Foreign contracts. Weapons trades. Smuggled names. Blood-soaked ledgers.
She didn't understand much—but enough to know this wasn't normal business. Not legal. Not clean.
And there—near the corner of one form—
a name.
Her breath caught.
She leaned in.
Read it again.
Damon Corvini.
Her lips parted.
"Corvini...?"
A whisper.
A memory.
Her stomach dropped.
That name. That name.
She remembered it.
A news segment a few months back. Whispers of the Corvini bloodline. The infamous mafia heirs in Europe—dangerous, hidden, brutal. Known for their silence. Feared for their reach. The Corvini family didn't deal in crime. They ruled it.
And Damon—he was one of them.
Alina backed away slightly, her legs beginning to tremble.
Damon Corvini.
No. No, please—
Then her eyes caught movement—something beneath the papers. She pushed the folders aside.
A mask.
Black. Smooth. Soulless.
The mask.
The one that haunted her.
The one from the alley.
The one from her room.
The one that watched her cry.
Her hand flew to her mouth as the mask slipped and hit the ground.
No. No. It can't be...
He saved me.
Didn't he?
She backed away, shaking, but her hand moved again—drawer—open it.
Inside—
A box.
Inside the box—the pendant.
The dragon pendant.
But it wasn't jewelry. Not harmless. She'd seen it before—
Glinting under moonlight.
Coated in blood.
A hidden blade.
That night. The alley. The club. The house.
It wasn't a nightmare. It was him.
She opened another drawer, desperate to prove herself wrong.
Instead—
Photos.
Her.
And Kevin.
But Kevin's face…
Crossed out.
Red. Vicious. Marked.
Her knees buckled.
"No…" she whispered, a sob hitching in her throat.
She had let him in. Let him touch her. Let him break her. Over and over.
She gave herself to the monster who ruined her.
And Kevin… oh god, Kevin—
She scrambled through the desk, searching for any sign—where he might be, what Damon had done with him.
Nothing.
Her eyes locked on the glowing monitor.
She raced toward it.
A password screen.
Three attempts.
She typed Damon's birthday.
Wrong.
Tried her own.
Wrong.
One last chance.
She froze.
She couldn't risk locking it.
Then—
Footsteps.
Tiny, running footsteps outside the door.
"A-lin-a!"
Noah's cheerful voice.
Panic surged. She wiped her tears. Threw the mask back into the folder. Shoved the files closed, hands shaking. Slammed the drawers shut.
She turned to the portrait one last time—those painted eyes staring through her soul.
Corvini.
Damon Corvini.
The man who made her beg.
The man who destroyed Kevin.
She stepped into the hallway as Noah appeared, laughing, pulling her hand.
"Found you!"
She smiled.
Barely.
But inside, something had shattered—completely, irreparable
It was real.
And the devil has a name.
Damon Corvini.
Mansion – Evening
She sat in the quiet corner of the lounge, Noah playing beside her, his laughter echoing like little bursts of joy in a room that no longer held any for her.
Her hands trembled in her lap.
It had all changed.
Once, this place had felt like safety. Once, he had felt like comfort.
Now it felt like poison.
Her stomach twisted with the truth—cold and brutal.
She remembered that night.
The night he came into her room with the mask, silent and cruel.
The night she'd grabbed the paper cutter and slit his arm.
The night he said—"I'll make you beg for me."
And he did.
He made her beg.
And she had given in—tangled in his sheets, his breath on her skin, her body betraying her terror.
She gave him the one thing she'd saved.
The one thing that should have belonged to someone who loved her.
Her virginity.
Her trust.
He took everything.
And she'd loved him.
More than herself. More than reason.
She thought of him as family. As something good.
But it had all been a lie.
Every touch. Every smile.
Every illusion of care.
A manipulation.
She pressed her face into her hands, silent sobs breaking free. Her shoulders trembled. She didn't want Noah to see her like this.
It felt like she had shattered.
Into pieces no one could put back.
Then—
A small, warm hand touched her back.
"Lina?" Noah's voice was soft, confused. "You're crying?"
She quickly wiped her face. "No, baby, I'm not. I just… I miss my grandma."
Noah's little arms wrapped around her. "Don't worry, Lina. She'll come back. I don't like you like this. I like you when you smile."
She forced a smile for him—cracked, broken—but a smile still.
Then he added brightly, lips curling in a grin,
"Uncle Damon has super cool games on his big computer!"
"You need password to open it" Alina said in low voice .
Noah made a devilish smile " I know it la la la".
Alina looked at him, startled. "You… knew the code?"
He nodded eagerly, lowering his voice as if sharing a great conspiracy.
"Yup! I peeked when he wasn't looking—spy mode!" he whispered, giggling. "I didn't tell anyone 'cause I was gonna play when no one sees!"
She blinked, heart pounding. "Noah… do you remember it?"
He puffed his chest proudly. "Of course I do! I even made a song in my head so I don't forget."
Then he leaned in and whispered it like it was treasure.
Alina's breath caught.
She hugged him so tightly it made him squeal.
"Lina! You squishing me!"
"Sorry," she whispered, eyes already burning with purpose. "Just—thank you, baby."
He beamed. "Can we play now?"
"We will. I promise." She kissed his cheek. "But wait here, alright? Just for a little while. Don't tell anyone about the code, okay?"
Noah zipped his lips dramatically. "Secret mission!"
Alina smiled, the first real one in hours—then turned and ran like her life depended on it.
Because maybe it did.
He nodded, distracted by his toys again.
She turned to one of the maids in the hallway. "Please keep an eye on him."
Then she ran.
Heart racing. Mind screaming.
Straight to the study.
To the truth.
To Kevin.
To everything Damon Corvini had tried to hide.
Mansion – Nightfall
She ran through the hall like her veins were fire.
Her pulse thudded like a war drum in her ears—
I need to find the truth. I need to find Kevin. I need to escape.
Before he returns.
Tomorrow. Damon would return tomorrow.
And if she stayed...
There might be no tomorrow.
Her hands shook as she entered the study. The room was still, too still—as if it had been waiting for her.
She sat at the desk, heart pounding, and typed in the password Noah had whispered.
One beat.
Two.
Access granted.
The screen blinked alive.
She let out a soft gasp of relief—only to see a folder labeled in stark, black letters:
ALINA
Her blood ran cold.
Why was it named after her?
She double-clicked.
Dozens of files.
She opened the first one.
And then she stopped breathing.
It was her.
Bathing.
In the bathroom—naked, vulnerable, unaware.
She clicked another—her dressing.
Another—her crying, sitting alone in her room.
He had watched her. Recorded her. Every private moment.
He had installed cameras.
Her head spun. She staggered back from the screen like it had slapped her.
The air left her lungs.
All the love she had stored for him—foolishly, blindly—turned into pure, screaming hatred.
Tears rushed down her cheeks, but these tears weren't soft anymore.
They burned.
Betrayal. Humiliation. Rage.
She wiped them away with trembling fingers and whispered like a curse:
"He watched me… all this time…"
Then she searched desperately.
Kevin.
Where are you?
She searched his name. Searched every folder.
Nothing.
No sign. No clue.
The screen stared back at her blankly. Empty.
"I need to escape," she muttered, again and again like a broken mantra. "He's dangerous. I need to get out. I need to escape."
She shut everything down, closed the folders, wiped her fingerprints from the desk, and ran to her room—her feet silent, her breath loud.
Her heart beat like a warning.
He's coming back. He's coming back.
Her face was drenched in sweat.
I need to tell Anaya.
She picked up her phone and called. It rang once.
Then—
"Alina?" Anaya's voice was sharp, concerned. "Is everything okay? Are you running—?"
"No! I mean—Anaya, don't come home tonight. Please. Stay with a friend until I say. Just… don't come."
"Alina, what's happening? You sound—"
"I'm going to propose," she blurted out. "It's a surprise. I just—I need time. I'll explain everything later."
A lie. A terrible, trembling lie.
Before Anaya could question further, she ended the call.
Then she turned to her closet, yanked out a bag, and threw in everything she could—
Cash.
Cards.
Documents.
Phone charger.
Her hands shook so violently, she dropped her wallet.
She whispered to herself—"Almost done, almost out, almost safe—"
Then—
A voice.
Low. Smooth.
Deadly.
"Are you going somewhere, baby girl?"
Her blood froze.
She turned slowly, her body paralyzed with dread.
And there he was.
Damon.
Leaning against the doorframe, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, eyes gleaming like knives.
A crooked grin on his lips.
Like he knew.
Like he always knew.
Flashback:
Damon pov:
The night was velvet around him, quiet and still.
He lay on the leather recline of his private suite—shirt unbuttoned, wrist draped over his eyes, the cabin lights dimmed to shadows.
But rest?
Rest was an illusion.
Because even in stillness, his thoughts spun.
Back to her.
Alina.
Always her.
She was threaded into every quiet breath he took. Every silence dragged her name through his head like a blade.
He hated it.
He needed it.
Then—his phone buzzed, sharp and cold.
He answered without looking. "Yes."
A voice on the other end—calm, clipped.
> "Sir. We found Kevin."
His eyes opened. Calm shattered.
He sat up. "Where?"
> "Hospital. Critical care. He's unconscious. But…"
"The doctors said he's stable now. He could regain consciousness any day."
A pause.
> "The officer whom the doctor filed the report… is one of ours."
Damon's lips curled. Not in a smile.
> "So that bastard lives."
His fingers tightened around the phone, slow and deliberate, as if he could crush the news out of existence.
> "Keep someone inside that hospital. If he opens his fucking eyes—shut them again."
The call ended.
He didn't speak.
Didn't blink.
Instead, he reached for his inner line and ordered the jet.
> "Fuel it. We leave in ten."
Ten minutes later, the sky swallowed him whole, and the city beneath became a smear of stars.
But it wasn't the sky he watched.
It was his phone.
A sharp ping.
Then another.
> Intrusion detected – Study Accessed.
His thumb tapped once.
The screen came alive.
The cameras showed her.
Alina.
His girl.
His obsession.
Wandering into his study like a ghost looking for her grave.
Hair tangled from haste. Breath frantic. Eyes wide and red-rimmed like she'd seen a nightmare.
Or become one.
> What are you looking for, baby girl?
He watched her touch his desk. The box lit up.
She tried.
Failed.
Erased the trace.
He smirked.
> "Silly little rabbit…"
Then silence for some time.
He leaned back, eyes half-lidded, amused.
Until—
Another ping.
Access granted.
She had opened it.
The screen showed her face, pale as moonlight, frozen in front of the files.
The ALINA folder.
The footage.
The mask.
The knife.
Her dressing. Her crying.
Her bathing.
She saw it all.
And he saw her—breaking.
Her hands to her mouth. Her back curling inward.
Her soul tearing apart on screen.
He didn't smirk now.
No pleasure in this.
Not tonight.
Because she wasn't just broken.
She was moving.
She was leaving.
He watched her shut everything down, wipe her prints, run—out of the study, out of sight.
His heartbeat thudded once.
Twice.
He hated the sound of it.
> "You made a big mistake, baby…"
The plane began its descent.
He closed his eyes. Inhaled. Exhaled. But the air no longer calmed him.
Because now he didn't want to watch her break.
He needed to hold the pieces.
By the time the jet touched the tarmac, the sky had bruised to black.
He stepped out. The driver opened the door.
Damon's voice was quiet. Too quiet.
> "Drive. Fast."
The car pulled into the road.
Outside, the city burned with lights.
Inside him, something else burned darker.
> She thinks she can run.
She thinks she has a chance.
But she's mine.
And I don't let what's mine disappear.
Not ever.
Not again.