//HEAVEN'S POV//
By the time I reach Moretti Manor, the sun is rising.
The world looks different in daylight — softer, slower, easier to lie to. But not me.
I've never been fooled by light.
The mansion looms like a relic of a dead empire. Marble floors, heavy chandeliers, stained glass windows telling stories no one cares to remember. My boots echo down the long hall as I enter my father's old office.
It still smells like him.
Whiskey. Smoke. Steel.
His chair is empty now, but not for long.
Because I'm taking it back.
I run my hand along the mahogany desk, fingers brushing the grooves he used to drum when he was thinking. He built an empire that rotted from the inside out — because he trusted the wrong people. Because he wasn't ruthless enough.
I won't make the same mistake.
I won't trust anyone.
Especially not the man with ash in his soul and a mouth that tastes like damnation.
A phone buzzes.
Private number.
I answer, already knowing.
"You're home," Damien says.
Of course he knows. He always knows.
"You watching me now?" I ask.
"Always."
I sit in the chair — his chair — and kick my feet up on the desk. "Enjoy the view?"
He chuckles. "Immensely."
There's a pause.
Then he says something that wraps around my spine like a cold blade.
"You're in danger, Heaven."
I smirk. "So are they."
"No. Not them." His voice lowers. "You've made enemies within your own ranks."
I go still.
"How do you know that?"
"I read people better than they read their own thoughts."
There's another pause.
Then he adds, "You should let me help."
I laugh softly. "And become what? Your kept queen in a kingdom of corpses?"
"No," Damien says darkly. "My equal."
The silence that follows is suffocating.
Because for the first time… I don't know if I want to say no.
//DAMIEN'S POV//
She hung up.
Didn't need to speak. Didn't need to thank me.
Heaven Moretti doesn't say thank you.
She says don't bleed too much when I ruin you.
I sit in my armchair in the penthouse, staring out at the skyline, holding her necklace in my hand. The one she left behind during our last war. A delicate silver chain with a charm shaped like a flame.
Fitting.
She burns through every room she walks into — a wildfire in red lips and leather.
And the men around her?
They're either falling in love or falling dead.
I light a cigar.
Take one slow drag.
And then I make a call.
"Put eyes on Marcellus," I say. "He's planning something behind her back."
"Copy that, boss."
I hang up and look down at the glass of bourbon in my hand.
For the first time in years, I'm not sure if I want to destroy someone.
Or worship them.
//HEAVEN'S POV//
I didn't sleep.
By nightfall, the manor feels like a ticking bomb.
My phone buzzes again.
This time, it's a message.
From an unknown number:
You're not your father. And we don't kneel for little girls who play dress-up with death.
Attached is a photo.
Of my father's grave.
The headstone has been vandalized — slashed with red paint.
TRUST NO ONE.
Beneath it, a single rose.
Black.
And on the stem, a small tag:
D.
Damien's warning wasn't just noise.
It was a siren.
And I ignored it.
But I won't make that mistake again.
//Heaven's POV//
I don't sleep.
The manor stays silent, but my head doesn't. Every creak in the floorboards, every flicker of shadow under the doors feels like a whisper from the grave.
Whiskey. Smoke. Steel.
His scent still clings to everything. The walls. The desk. Me.
I don't know how long I sit there in my father's chair, but my legs ache from staying still. My phone lies face-down on the desk, that message burned into my skull:
You're not your father. And we don't kneel for little girls who play dress-up with death.
The paint. The grave. The black rose.
The tag with Damien's initial.
But it wasn't from him. I know it wasn't.
Damien would never sign a threat.
No, this was someone trying to turn the blade sideways — twist his presence into a threat.
But it did something else instead.
It made me want him closer.
A soft knock comes at the glass balcony door. My body goes stiff, and I reach under the desk for the pistol I keep taped to the underside.
I step softly to the curtains and pull them aside.
Damien.
Standing on the terrace, dark suit, no tie, hair wind-swept. As if he's been walking through a warzone and only paused now to catch his breath.
I unlock the door and open it.
"What the hell are you doing here?" I whisper.
His eyes flick to the gun in my hand.
"Cute," he murmurs. "You gonna shoot me or invite me in?"
I don't move.
He steps closer, until we're chest to chest. His cologne hits first — clean, sharp, masculine. Like winter fire.
Then comes the heat.
"The grave," I say.
"I know."
"It wasn't you."
"No."
"Then why—"
His hand lifts, fingers sliding into my hair, gripping just enough to make me inhale.
"Because they wanted you to doubt me," he says. "And it worked."
I should push him away.
But I don't.
Instead, I press the barrel of the gun to his chest.
And his lips part like I just kissed him.
"You're not scared of me," I murmur.
"No."
"You should be."
His other hand comes to my waist, dragging me against him. "You think I haven't already imagined how you'd taste with a gun in your hand and vengeance on your tongue?"
My pulse kicks. "Then why are you here?"
"To remind you that you're not alone."
A long beat passes. The gun between us. The silence thick.
And then I lower it.
He wastes no time. His mouth crashes to mine like a man unchained, and I meet him with teeth and fire. His hands grip my thighs, lifting me onto the desk. Papers scatter. My back hits cool wood. I wrap my legs around his waist.
I don't want gentle.
I want war.
Because we are both made for it.
His lips move to my jaw, my neck, the pulse beneath my skin.
"You came here to warn me," I whisper. "But this—this is something else."
He pauses, breath ragged. "This is me forgetting every rule I made for myself the second you sat in that chair."
He tears open the buttons of my blouse.
And I let him.
Because tonight, I don't need a crown.
I need ruin.
suddenly something flashed by in a moment, it was Damien with the back of my pistol.
He knocked me unconscious with it, motherfucker.