//HEAVEN'S POV//
I couldn't sleep.
Every time I closed my eyes, the image of that photo burned through the darkness — the man with his hand on my shoulder, the casual claim in his touch. A stranger.
The air in Damien's penthouse feels thicker now, as if the truth has soaked into the walls. I want to leave, but the thought of stepping outside without knowing who's watching makes my skin crawl.
I find him in the kitchen at dawn, sleeves rolled to his forearms, hair damp like he's already been up for hours. He moves like a man who never truly rests.
"You didn't tell me everything," I say, not a question.
He glances up from the knife in his hand, slicing through an apple with clean precision. "I told you enough for you to understand the danger you're in."
"I'm not in danger. You are."
That gets me a small, sharp smile. "You think so?"
I push past him, grab a glass from the counter, pour water. My hand shakes only slightly. "I need the rest of the files."
"No." His voice is steel. "You're not ready for what's in them."
"I wasn't ready for any of this," I snap, "but here we are."
He sets the knife down, slowly. "You don't get to command me in my own home, Heaven."
"I'm not commanding. I'm surviving."
There's a moment — a long, loaded pause where he studies me like I'm a puzzle he could solve if he just tore off the right pieces. Then, without a word, he takes my wrist and pulls me toward his office.
//DAMIEN'S POV//
She doesn't realize that every time she demands something from me, she's only weaving herself deeper into my world.
I open the drawer and pull out a second folder. Not the worst of them — not yet. I'm saving that for when I want to break her completely.
Her eyes scan the pages, her jaw tightening, and I know she's piecing things together faster than I anticipated. She's sharp, sharper than she lets on.
"This one," she says, tapping a page with a name scrawled in the corner, "was at our house once. My father said he was an enemy."
"He was," I answer, stepping behind her, my hands braced on the desk beside her. "And your father was funding him under another name."
She turns her head slightly, just enough for her hair to brush my jaw. I could kiss her. I could sink my teeth in until she remembered nothing but me.
But I don't. Not yet.
"You're going to help me find them," she says, like it's not negotiable.
A low laugh escapes me. "Careful, Heaven. Every step you take toward this… pulls you further from the life you think you can go back to."
"I'm already too far gone," she says quietly.
That's when I say it — low, deliberate, in the space between her heartbeat and mine.
" A mè rovina."
She closes her eyes like the words hurt. Or heal. Or both.
//HEAVEN'S POV//
I hate the way it sounds in his mouth.
I hate the way it feels.
But most of all, I hate that a part of me wonders if he's right — if I'm already exactly what he says I am.
I slide the folder shut, unable to look at the last page. "When do we start?"
His answer is immediate. "Tonight."
Something tells me he's been waiting for this.
Something tells me this is exactly where he wanted me all along.
//HEAVEN'S POV//
The dress is the first sign something's different.
It's laid out on the bed when I wake — black silk, sleeveless, the kind of cut that skims your curves and makes it impossible to hide. A single box sits beside it. Inside, black Louboutin stilettos. My size.
Damien isn't in the room, but his presence is everywhere — the scent of his cologne lingering like smoke, the silver cufflinks left on the dresser, the faint indentation beside me.
He slept here, beside me.
I move to grab my phone, and that's when I see it.
Unknown Number: He's not your savior, Heaven. He's your executioner.
The words dig under my skin like glass splinters. My first instinct is to delete it, pretend it's nothing. But my thumb hovers over the screen. The number is blocked. Just like before.
When Damien finally appears in the doorway, it's like he pulls the air with him. His presence is impossible to ignore.
His 6'4 frame with Dark charcoal suit tailored to perfection, black shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal the strong line of his collarbone. His dark chocolate hair, swept back and glossy in the low light, frames the sharpness of his cheekbones. And then my eyes catch it — the thin, pale scar running from just beneath his right ear to the base of his jaw. A flaw, but one that only makes him more dangerous, more real.
Even his eyes… that piercing, winter-gray color that stares like it could cut through me like glass.
"Wear it," he says, nodding to the dress.
"Where are we going?"
He doesn't answer. Just leans against the frame, watching me with that unreadable expression that makes me want to demand, scream, push — but also obey.
//DAMIEN'S POV//
She looks at me like she's trying to solve a puzzle she already knows the answer to.
And she's wearing nothing but the silk robe she slept in. I give her twenty minutes to change. She takes eighteen.
The dress clings to her like it was made for her alone — black silk on warm, sun-kissed skin. Her dark brown hair with golden subtle undertones falls loose in glossy waves, framing her face in a way that draws my eyes to her mouth. Those lips — full, soft, a shade I've thought about tasting far too many times.
But it's her eyes that catch me, every damn time. Almond-shaped, an impossible shade of hazel that shifts between green and gold depending on the light. I've seen them flash with anger, glisten with tears, darken with heat… and right now, they're guarded, but not enough to hide the way they search me.
Perfect.
When I offer my arm, she hesitates just long enough to remind me she's still fighting me in her head. That's fine. She'll lose.
//HEAVEN'S POV//
The club is nothing like I expected. It's hidden beneath an old hotel, all deep mahogany, low lighting, and the kind of silence that feels heavy with secrets. Every man in the room turns to watch us walk in, their gazes sharp and assessing.
Damien leads me to a round table tucked in the corner. He doesn't introduce me, doesn't explain — just pulls my chair close enough that his thigh presses against mine.
As he speaks to the men, I notice the difference in him. No teasing, no smirks. His voice is low, his words in Sicilian-Italian, the syllables sharp and deliberate. The others respond with a mix of respect and caution.
I catch fragments in English — shipments, payment, loyalty. A name I recognize from the files. My father's world.
//DAMIEN'S POV//
They're all looking at her. I feel it in the way the air shifts, the way silence lingers a half-second longer when she moves.
I rest my hand on her thigh. Not gently. Possessively.
It's not about affection. It's about letting them know exactly where she belongs.
//HEAVEN'S POV//
Halfway through, I excuse myself. The air feels too thick, my chest too tight.
I slip into the hallway, phone in hand. Another message blinks on the screen.
Unknown Number: Your father's sins will kill you before he does.
My stomach twists. I'm about to type back when a shadow moves behind me.
Damien.
"What did I tell you about wandering?" His voice is low, dangerous.
"I needed air."
His hand slides to my jaw, tilting my face up until I'm looking at him. His eyes are darker than the suit he's wearing.
//DAMIEN'S POV//
She's not scared enough. Or maybe she's scared of the wrong things.
I lean in, my mouth close enough that I feel her breath hitch. "A mè rovina," I say, and it's not a term of endearment this time. It's a reminder. A warning.
"You're in my world now. And the only way out…" I brush my thumb over her bottom lip. "…is with me."
//HEAVEN'S POV//
The ride back is silent, but not empty.
Damien's driving, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting on the console between us — close enough that the heat of it brushes my thigh every time the road curves. The city outside is a blur of neon and shadows, but I can't stop glancing at him.
That scar again, catching the passing streetlight. I wonder how he got it. I wonder if I'll ever be brave enough to ask.
I tuck the question away like I've been tucking away every detail about him.
By the time we leave the car and step inside, my phone lights up again. Another message.
Unknown Number: He knows more than he's telling you.
I don't show Damien. But I feel the weight of his hand at the small of my back, steering me into the shadows — and I wonder if the warning is too late.