Chapter 3 - Secrets in the Shadows
The heavy oak doors of the private study clicked shut behind us, cutting off the thumping bass of the jazz orchestra and the murmurs of the corrupt elite downstairs. The room was dark, smelling faintly of aged leather, cigar smoke, and expensive cologne. Rain lashed furiously against the floor-to-ceiling windows, turning the Manhattan skyline into a smear of neon watercolor.
I yanked my hand out of Damian’s grasp, pressing my back against the locked door as if I could melt right through the wood.
"Are you insane?" I hissed, my voice trembling with a mixture of adrenaline and righteous fury. "That man looked like he wanted to wear my bones as a necklace! You brought me into a den of wolves and didn't even give me a warning!"
Damian didn't flinch. He walked over to a dark mahogany desk, poured two fingers of neat bourbon into a heavy glass, and swallowed half of it in a single burn. Only then did he turn his pale gray eyes back toward me.
"If I had told you the truth—that Leon Bascari and Victor Vance were going to be sniffing around looking for leverage—you would have stayed on your piano bench in Midtown," Damian said, his voice dangerously level.
"Damn right I would have!" I pushed off the door, marching across the Persian rug until I stood right in front of him. Even in my heels, I had to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. "My sister needs tuition money, Mr. Moretti, not a front-row seat to a mob execution! I am a piano player, not a suicide bomber!"
Damian set his glass down with a sharp clink. He reached out, his large, warm hand catching my chin before I could step back. His fingers were rough with calluses, contrasting sharply with the tailored elegance of his suit. He tilted my face upward, forcing me to look into his stormy eyes.
"You think I enjoy this?" he asked quietly, the anger beneath his calm exterior suddenly flaring into something hot and terrifying. "You think I wanted to drag a civilian into the crossfire? Victor is moving narcotics through my shipping ports without authorization. Leon is backing him. To maintain my authority, I needed a wild card tonight—someone they couldn't profile, someone they couldn't dig up files on in twenty-four hours. You were a ghost, Claire. That made you useful."
"Useful," I repeated, my voice cracking slightly under the pressure of his hand. "I'm a human being, not a pawn on your chessboard."
"In my world, everyone is a pawn," Damian replied, though his thumb brushed once across my jawline in a gesture that felt entirely too tender for a criminal mastermind. "Including me. But you... you played your part brilliantly down there. Victor actually believed you were my wife."
"Because your grip on my waist nearly fractured my ribs!"
A sudden, rare smile broke across Damian’s face—not the practiced smirk he showed the ballroom, but a genuine, crooked grin that transformed his harsh features into something dangerously handsome.
"Survival instincts, Claire. You're learning."
"I hate you," I muttered, though I didn't pull away from his hand.
"Most people do," he murmured, his gaze dropping slowly to my lips before snapping back up to my eyes. "It keeps the relationship uncomplicated."
Before I could process the sudden, suffocating shift in the air between us, the security monitor on the desk beeped sharply. Damian’s expression hardened instantly. He dropped his hand from my face, crossed the room in two strides, and tapped the glowing screen.
An exterior camera feed showed the service elevator doors on the sub-level opening. Three men in black tactical gear stepped out into the hallway, carrying silenced submachine guns.
May you like
My breath hitched in my throat. "Damian..."
"They're early," he whispered, his voice dangerously calm as he unlocked a hidden compartment beneath the mahogany desk and pulled out a heavy black Glock 19, checking the magazine with practiced, lethal speed. "Victor didn't want to wait until morning. He wants a coup tonight."
