Now, the world seems to dissolve into a great maelstrom of screams and cordite. There was no time for thought, only instinct. The arm of Damiano on the arm of Serena was like a manacle of iron, pulling her away from the security of the pillar into the chaos of the fight he owned. He moved, brutal and mesmerizing, a predator navigating the terrain native to him. He fired from his weapon in short, deafening bursts that sent the shots finding their targets and calmly cleared his way through the panicking crowd and the encroaching gunmen. Serena was flung along in his wake, but not like a limp doll. Her instincts for survival, honed into her by years of private training, flared to life. At the instant of impact, a gunman lunged toward her; she twisted against Damiano's hold, her leg snapping out in a vicious kick. The pointed heel from her shoe connected with his knee. The man roared and staggered, and Damiano finished him off with one clinical shot in the chest. He shot her a cursory glance, a tinge of something-surprise, respect?-flickered inside his silver eyes before they resumed their cold focus. Not moving purposefully to escape, Damiano was dragging her into a massive, ornate tapestry depicting an ancient bloody battle. One hand went to press a concealed stone within one section of the marble wall, and it groaned inwards to reveal a dark passageway descending into the earth. He shoved her in without ceremony. "Get moving," he ordered, in a voice that couldn't have sounded anything but raw command. He followed her inside and sealed the large stone door behind them with a thud that felt as heavy and final as the silence into which they crushed themselves, leaving their gunfire behind.
Nothing but black, an almost velvet void enveloping all light and sound. Serena could almost feel the war vibrations outside through thick stone and now only the pounding of her heart and Damiano's quiet breath, unnervingly close in the suffocating dark, filled the space. His presence was an overall force in that confined area and the heat at her back was furnace hot. She could still sense the phantom pressure of his lips on hers, a mark of sin and fire. Before she could place herself anywhere within it, a low hum filled the air, and dim lights recessed in the ceiling flickered on, illuminating a sleek metallic elevator. His hand still clasped around her arm. He pulled her within. His fingers pressed into that sensitive skin on her wrist, and the lift began a smooth, silent descent deep into the bedrock of his fortress. The journey lasted a relatively agonizing instant, stretched out into pure, unmitigated feeling. When the doors opened, there was not a dank cellar behind them but an arena of power. It was his private study, a vast, circular room walled in bulletproof glass that offered a panoramic, god-like view of the glittering oblivious city below. Rich mahogany shelves lined with leather-bound books defined this paradise of power. The minimalist black desk did not boast much, just a glowing monitor in an otherwise cool, sterile, and slightly aged-scotch-smelling aura with a unique scent added from his cologne.
So, the uproar of the world's chaos above became silenced in distant memory, a movie viewing far removed from the reality of here: total power. Finally, he released her, shoving toward the room's center. Gradually, he withdrew his well-muscled arm in a crisp deliberate gesture, lifted it and removed his mask.
Serena caught her breath in her throat. It was handsomeness with a devastating impact, not only more than any rumor suggested, but crueler. It was a face carved from sin and discipline, with a sharp, aristocratic jawline that could cut glass and high cheekbones that spoke of ancient, noble blood. A faint, silvery scar cut through one dark eyebrow, a flaw that only enhanced his savage beauty. But it was his eyes that held her captive. They were the color of a winter sky, a pale, piercing silver that seemed to see everything, to strip away her lies and peel back the layers of her soul until she was naked and exposed. He threw the mask down to the desk with a soft clatter and advanced towards her, circling her slowly like a wolf with its prey to assess whether it was worth saving for future consumption. He stopped dead in front of her, close enough for her to feel the warmth radiating from his chest. "Serena Vale," he repeated, his voice a silken threat. "A very interesting name to hear screamed by assassins in my home. You will tell me, right now, who sent them. And you will tell me why a woman with the eyes of a killer was at my party pretending to be just another pretty guest." It was not a plea in her interrogation; it was an inflicting force that stunted her breath as it pressed down into her skin. Her mind was racing, scouring eleven falsehoods for the one that would save her skin. The tracker in her had wasted itself. Her mission lay devastated. All that was left was survival.
"Provided with Chi downloads by the Falcone family," she said, steadying her voice despite the tremor in her soul, looking straight at him. It was pouring every ounce of training for the performance: "My father was Alessandro Falcone's most trusted advisor. He made a deal with a rival syndicate, the Bratva, without permission. For his betrayal, my entire family was marked for death. They killed my father, my mother... my brother." The threads were interwoven with half-truths; Marco's death gave her voice a pang of grief that was raw and authentic. "I was the only one to get away. I heard a rumor you were jockeying for new territory, that you had a score to settle with the Falcones, and I came here tonight to try to convince you to join forces with me-in-exchange for the trade of what I know about their operations." She watched his face, searching for any sign that he believed her, but his expression was an unreadable mask of stone. He reached out, his gloved fingers tracing the line of her jaw, a touch that was shockingly gentle yet carried the weight of an executioner's hand. "A very compelling story," he murmured, his thumb brushing against her lips, sending a jolt of forbidden electricity through her. The sad princess asks the dragon for sanctuary, and that has all the attributes of a classic fairy tale." He bent down and his voice sank into a seductive whisper that might have raised the fine hairs on the nape of her neck. "But there is just one problem. I don't believe in fairy tales. And I don't believe you." His eyes narrowed, the silver hardening into chips of ice. "But I do believe you are valuable. And I do not let valuable things out of my sight."
He stepped back, creating a distance that was seemingly more charged than their embrace. He walked to the desk and poured two glasses from an amber liquid crystal decanter. He was no longer being the seductive dance partner or the brutal protector. He was the king upon his throne deciding her fate. "The men who attacked tonight were after you," were the flat, freezing words from his mouth. "This means that you are either a very important pawn or a very dangerous queen. Either way, you've brought war to my doorstep. For that, there is a price." He turned, presenting one glass to her. His face was a study in lethal calm, but his eyes burned with possessive fire that held any doubt about his intentions. "You wanted my protection, Serena Vale. You shall have it. You shall stay here, in this mansion, as my guest. You will eat my food, sleep under my roof, and you will not leave this estate without my explicit permission. In return, I will keep you safe from the Falcones or whoever else is hunting you. And you," he paused, taking a slow sip from his own glass, his eyes never leaving hers, "will give me the truth. All of it. Eventually." He was not making an offer. He was issuing a decree. She was a prisoner in dungeons. Her mission to kill him had gravely fallen apart, and now she was entrapped, caged with the very monster she'd sworn to destroy. She had walked into the lion's den wearing the skin of a sheep, only to find herself collared by the lion himself. Taking the glass from his hand, her fingers brushing against his, was an act of surrender. It was a silent admission that for now, the game had changed. She had lost this round. But as she met his cold, triumphant gaze over the rim of her glass, she made a silent vow. He may think he had caged her, but even the most beautiful bird can learn to sing a song of death. And she would wait, patiently, for her moment to strike.