Chapter 2 - The Crimson Ring
Victor Calloway yanked his arm back, rubbing his bruised wrist while his eyes darted nervously between Damian and the slight, shell-shocked woman standing behind him. The bravado had drained from his face, replaced by the jittery caution of a dog cornered by a wolf it thought was dead.
"Your wife," Victor repeated, tasting the words like poison. "Right. Congratulations, Boss. News travels fast. The board’s going to be... thrilled."
"Get out," Damian commanded, his grip on the edge of the desk steadying his weight.
Victor didn't argue. He gave one sharp nod, shot Elena a look that promised a slow, agonizing reckoning, and backed out through the shattered front door with his men trailing close behind.
The moment the door clicked shut, the adrenaline crashed out of Elena’s system, leaving her knees trembling so violently she had to catch herself against the supply shelf. She stared at Damian, her chest heaving, her mind spinning wildly out of control.
"Are you insane?" she hissed, abandoning all professional decorum as she stepped toward him. "What on earth possessed you to tell them that? You just painted a massive target on my back! By morning, every single cutthroat in your syndicate is going to know I'm tied to you!"
Damian exhaled slowly, pressing a hand to his bandaged flank where a fresh smear of crimson was beginning to bloom through his black shirt. He walked past her toward the back office, not bothering to answer until he sank heavily into the worn leather chair behind the desk.
"If I told Victor you were just a stranger who saved my life out of the goodness of her heart, he would have put a bullet through your skull the second he walked out that door to tie up loose ends," Damian said, his voice flat, matter-of-fact, completely devoid of apology. "In my world, mercy is a weakness. But a wife? A weakness can be leveraged, watched, or tested—which buys you time. And right now, time is the only thing keeping you breathing."
Elena crossed her arms, glaring at him with a mix of fury and disbelief. "I didn't ask for your protection, Damian. I survived three years in this neighborhood without a mafia boss claiming ownership of me!"
"You survived because nobody important noticed you," Damian shot back, his ice-blue eyes locking onto hers with unyielding intensity. "Now they've noticed. Victor Calloway is ambitious. He thinks I'm weak because of this wound. He wants my seat at the table. By claiming you, I've dragged you into the center of a coup whether you like it or not. So you can either stand there yelling at me, or you can help me prep a secure line before Victor figures out my stitches are still wet."
Elena stared at him. The arrogant, untouchable criminal was bleeding on her furniture, demanding she clean up his mess. Yet, beneath the icy veneer, she saw the grim, exhausted reality of a man fighting for his life against his own inner circle.
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With a frustrated sigh, she turned on her heel, marched to the medical cabinet, and pulled out a fresh pack of sterile gauze and a suture kit. "If you bleed on my chair again," she muttered, snapping on a pair of latex gloves, "I'm telling Victor where you keep your spare guns."
Damian let out a low, humorless rumble that sounded almost like a laugh before wincing as she began re-dressing his wound.
