The mansion was too quiet the next morning.
Not peaceful—just hollow, like the air itself was holding its breath. Every guard moved with clipped precision, every servant whispered as if afraid to disturb the ghosts that lingered after the gunfire.
Alessia hadn't slept.
The memory of the shot still echoed in her mind, sharp and merciless. She sat by the window, watching dawn spill across the horizon in streaks of red and gold.
The world looked calm, but she knew better, beauty was often just a disguise for danger.
A knock came at the door. She didn't answer. Damian entered anyway.
He looked worn, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up, a faint bruise shadowing his jaw. But his eyes—cold, alert, and calculating—were the same.
"You didn't sleep," he said.
"Neither did you."
He ignored the jab and came to stand beside her. "The shooter was a professional. No family ties. Paid in cash."
"By who?"
"We're still tracing it."
She turned to him. "You mean you don't know, or you won't tell me?"
His gaze met hers, steady and unreadable. "Both."
Her frustration flared. "You keep me locked in this house, surrounded by your men, and still treat me like a stranger. I deserve to know what's happening."
He stepped closer, his voice low. "You deserve to stay alive. That's what's happening."
The words hit harder than she expected. For a moment, she saw something flicker in his eyes—fear, maybe, or guilt—but it vanished as quickly as it came.
"Get dressed," he said. "We're leaving."
"Leaving?"
"I'm taking you somewhere safe."
She frowned. "Safe doesn't exist in your world, Damian."
He gave a faint, humorless smile. "Then I'll build it."
The car ride was silent. Two black SUVs followed behind them, tinted windows glinting in the morning light. Alessia watched the city blur past—streets she once walked freely now looked foreign, hostile.
They stopped at a secluded villa on the outskirts of town, surrounded by olive trees and high stone walls. It was beautiful, almost serene, but the guards stationed at every corner reminded her it was still a cage.
Inside, Damian poured himself a drink though it was barely noon. "You'll stay here until I handle things."
"And what will you handle?" she asked.
He looked at her over the rim of his glass. "Whoever tried to kill us."
"Us?" she repeated softly.
He set the glass down. "They aimed for me, but you were there. That makes you a target now."
Her chest tightened. "So I'm just collateral damage?"
His jaw clenched. "No. You're my wife."
The words hung between them, heavy and dangerous.
She took a step closer. "You say that like it means something."
"It does," he said quietly. "More than you think."
For a moment, the mask slipped. She saw the man beneath—the one who carried too many ghosts, who had built walls not to keep others out, but to keep himself from breaking.
"Why do you do it?" she asked. "All of this—the power, the blood, the fear. What's it for?"
He hesitated, then looked away. "Because someone has to be the devil."
"And you chose to be him?"
"No," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I was made into him."
The confession hung in the air, raw and unguarded. Alessia didn't know what to say. For the first time, she saw Damian not as the monster her father warned her about, but as a man shaped by the darkness he inherited.
He turned toward her, his expression unreadable again. "Stay inside. Don't talk to anyone but me. I'll be back before nightfall."
"Damian—"
He paused at the door.
"Be careful," she said.
He gave a small nod, then left.
As the sound of engines faded into the distance, Alessia stood alone in the quiet villa. The sunlight streamed through the windows, warm and golden, but it couldn't chase away the chill that settled in her chest.
Because for the first time, she realized something terrifying.
She wasn't just afraid of Damian Moretti anymore.
She was afraid of what she was beginning to feel for him.