My eyes swept the room, cold and calculating. The stench of cheap liquor and desperation clung to the air like rot. Drunken laughter spilled from the mouths of men too pathetic to matter — dancing like broken marionettes, clinging to illusions of power. Disgust twisted my lips, but I didn't stop. My feet carried me across the bar, each step deliberate, silent, until I reached the door.
That door.
The one no one dared approach without an invitation.
My palm hovered over the knob, slick with sweat. A single drop trailed down the side of my neck, and in my mind, I heard the echoes again — screaming, pleading voices, clawing at the walls of memory.
For the sake of revenge.
The metal creaked under my grip as I turned it, slow and steady. The door cracked open, revealing the man I had come for.
He sat like a monarch in the shadows — one arm stretched across the backrest, the other lazily swirling a drink in his glass. His posture was relaxed, but his presence filled the room like a storm about to break. Eyes like razors flicked toward me, sharp enough to carve through silence. He didn't need to turn his head to see me — he already knew.
Damian Rousseau.
The devil draped in designer. The butcher behind velvet curtains. The man whose name made even the most powerful politicians lower their gaze and offer trembling loyalty. He ruled an empire rooted in blood, bones, and fear — and anyone who defied him never lived long enough to regret it.
My gut twisted with loathing. I wanted to put a bullet through his skull — right there, right then. But rage was a luxury I couldn't afford.
Not yet.
If I was going to destroy him, I needed in. I needed to play the part, smile through the venom, and keep my hands steady.
He smirked, that infuriating curve of his lips making my jaw tighten.
"So," he said, voice like silk over steel, "you want in?"
His eyes didn't move. His hand never left the drink — but I knew the other was resting just beneath the table, curled around the cold steel of a gun.
"Then tell me why you're worth the risk."
My fists clenched. My heart thudded like war drums. He was testing me. Mocking me. Daring me.
But I had come prepared.
Without a word, my hand reached up — slow, calculated — to the penknife buried in the nest of my messy bun. In a single fluid motion, I unsheathed it and hurled it across the room.
The blade cut through the air with a whisper, embedding itself inches from the temple of his bodyguard, who hadn't even blinked.
But Damian had.
His gaze followed the arc of the blade like a hawk mid-hunt. For a heartbeat, there was silence.
Then the corner of his mouth tugged upward, and he chuckled.
"You've got quick hands," he said, finally turning to his man with a flick of disdain.
"Tch. You're slacking."
The guard stiffened in shame, but I didn't spare him a glance. My eyes were locked on the devil himself.
This wasn't over.
This was the beginning.
________________________________________
They said Damian Rousseau was born in blood and baptized in betrayal.
He wasn't a man — not really. Men had limits. Weakness. Conscience.
Rousseau had none of that.
He was the kind of nightmare that didn't just haunt your sleep — he rewrote it.
They say he slit his first throat before he could spell his last name. That his smile had been carved by the devil himself, and that when he made a deal, even Death took notes.
His empire stretched across borders like shadows at dusk — creeping, consuming, unseen until it was too late. Politicians bent for him. Kings bled for him. And anyone who dared whisper his name in defiance ended up a cautionary tale — buried beneath concrete, or worse… kept alive to wish they hadn't been.
He didn't need to shout to command the room — silence followed him in.
And when he looked at me — really looked — it felt like being dissected with a scalpel made of ice. Like he knew what made me tick, where your scars lived, and how best to weaponize them.
Damian Rousseau was a paradox — elegance wrapped in violence, charm soaked in cruelty. He dressed like royalty, but ruled like a reaper. Every word that fell from his lips was both velvet and venom.
And the most haunting part?
He never raised his voice.
He didn't have to.
Because when Damian Rousseau spoke — the world listened.
Or it disappeared.
"Satisfied?"
My lips curled into a slow, taunting smirk as I lowered my arm, settling back into a loose stance.
Damian's eyes raked over me — lingering not with lust, but with calculation. Measuring. Dissecting.
That smirk of mine, the boldness, the defiance — he saw it all. And he didn't look away.
"Good start."
He leaned forward, clasping his hands on the table with deliberate calm.
"But I'm gonna need more than a flashy penknife throw to impress me."
I scoffed, rolling my eyes — the irritation crawling just beneath my skin. God, how I wanted to kill him. To watch that smug look vanish as blood replaced it.
But not yet.
Revenge needed patience.
And I was done playing checkers — I was playing chess now.
With a breath, I lifted my hands to my hair, fingers combing through the strands, fixing what the throw had undone — but also stalling. Stalking.
Each step I took toward him was slow, calculated, as my fingertips brushed lightly along the edge of the table.
I saw it then — the twitch behind his gaze.
What's her game?
He didn't move. Not a blink.
But the tension in him was coiled like a serpent, every muscle wound tight beneath that tailored suit.
Waiting. Watching. Anticipating.
I stopped inches from him and perched on the edge of the table, letting silence settle between us like fog.
I had his full attention now — and that, no matter how fleeting, was my first win.
"What do you want me to do?" I asked, voice smooth but laced with steel.
"Convince me."
His gaze roamed slowly — face, throat, frame — calculating risk and potential all at once.
"You doubting me?" I asked, head tilted slightly, a smirk tugging at my lips.
He raised an eyebrow, a flicker of something dangerous flashing in his eyes.
"I doubt everyone. You're no exception."
Then, he leaned forward, his face mere inches from mine.
The air between us thickened — the scent of leather, cigarettes, and something darker filling the space.
"If you can't even convince me you're worth my time…"
His voice dropped.
"…why should I bother with you?"
That was the moment.
Like a blade through silence, my hand darted forward — swift, surgical — and before anyone could react, his gun was in my hand, the barrel now pressed to his forehead.
The room snapped into tension.
Gasps, shuffled steps, hands moving toward holsters — but too slow.
Even Damian flinched — just for a second.
His expression cracked with rare surprise before he lifted his hands in a casual, slow mock-surrender.
"Easy, fellas."
Now every eye was on me.
The woman who'd disarmed Damian Rousseau — the unchallenged king of the underworld — in front of his own men.
The club's muffled music thumped faintly in the background, but the silence in this room was absolute.
He stared up at me, and in his eyes — beneath the glint of danger — there was the faintest flicker of something else.
Respect.
"Clever," he murmured.
I smirked, and without breaking eye contact, I shifted the gun away from him — turning it to the right, toward the line of top-shelf whiskey bottles behind him.
Click.
I loaded the gun.
And then — bang.
Glass exploded in a sharp burst.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Every shot precise, each bottle shattered with brutal grace — and I never once looked away from Damian.
Each bullet spoke louder than any words could.
I wasn't here to impress.
I was here to dominate.
He sat frozen, stunned by the audacity — by the precision. His men were equally stunned, hands still twitching near their weapons, waiting for his word.
But Damian just kept watching me.
And then — a slow, lazy grin crept across his face.
"Well," he said, voice thick with intrigue,
"seems I've underestimated you."