Chapter 4: Sparks Beneath the Storm

A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.

“Enter.”

The door swung open, and Adrian stepped inside, his right-hand man moving with quiet efficiency.

“We’ve got a problem,” Adrian said, his voice clipped. “It’s DeLuca.”

Damien’s smirk vanished.

Vincent DeLuca.

The bastard had been testing Damien’s patience for months now, pushing into his operations, encroaching on his territory.

Damien set his whiskey down and steepled his fingers. “Go on.”

Adrian tossed a folder onto the desk. “Three of our shipments were intercepted last night. DeLuca’s men left a message—literally. One of our guys was found with a knife in his gut and a note pinned to his chest.”

Damien flipped open the folder, his jaw tightening as he took in the bloody images. The note was simple.

"You’re losing your edge, Moretti."

A slow, dangerous smile spread across Damien’s lips.

“That so?” he murmured.

Adrian met his gaze. “You want to retaliate?”

Damien chuckled, dark amusement lacing his voice. “Oh, Adrian. You know me better than that.”

He closed the folder and stood.

“Burn one of his warehouses to the ground.”

Adrian nodded. “Consider it done.”

Damien turned back toward the window, his thoughts already shifting.

DeLuca thought he could play games?

Fine.

But Damien Moretti didn’t play. He owned the board.

And soon, DeLuca would learn that lesson the hard way.

A Dangerous Invitation

His phone buzzed, drawing his attention.

It was a message from Rafael, another trusted associate.

The gala is confirmed. Everything is in place.

Damien’s smirk returned.

Perfect.

His fingers moved quickly as he typed a response.

Make sure Elena gets an invitation. Personally.

If she wouldn’t come to him willingly, then he’d make sure she had no choice.

This wasn’t over.

Not even close.

---

Elena was running on fumes.

The exhaustion from the past few days was catching up to her, and no amount of caffeine could chase away the pounding headache that had taken root behind her eyes.

She had spent the morning looking for jobs—again—but every lead ended in disappointment.

Nothing paid enough.

Nothing could cover Draco’s medical bills.

And now, Damien had made it clear that he wasn’t going anywhere.

Her stomach twisted at the memory of his warning.

"You’re mine, Elena."

She gritted her teeth, pushing away the unwanted thrill that ran down her spine at his words.

No.

She wouldn’t fall back into that trap.

She wouldn’t let herself be consumed by Damien Moretti again.

A sharp knock at her door made her heart stutter.

Elena tensed.

Not again.

She slowly approached, peering through the peephole.

A man in a sleek black suit stood on the other side.

Not Damien.

But definitely one of his men.

Elena hesitated, then yanked the door open. “What do you want?”

The man held out a sleek black envelope. “A message from Mr. Moretti.”

Elena swallowed hard before snatching the envelope from his grasp.

She tore it open, her eyes scanning the elegant lettering.

An invitation.

To a gala.

Damien’s gala.

Elena clenched her jaw. “Tell him I’m not going.”

The man didn’t even blink. “That’s not an option.”

Her fingers tightened around the paper.

Of course it wasn’t.

Damien had never been the kind of man to accept refusal.

He was tightening the web, pulling her in bit by bit.

And no matter how much she fought…

She wasn’t sure she could escape.

Not this time. 

-------

Elena stood before the mirror, smoothing down the fabric of the borrowed gown. The dress was elegant—midnight blue, simple yet refined, with a neckline that dipped just enough to be alluring without surrendering to extravagance. It was nothing like the designer gowns she knew the other women at the gala would be wearing, but she refused to give Damien the satisfaction of seeing her in something he had chosen.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she adjusted the thin silver bracelet on her wrist. It wasn’t nerves. At least, that’s what she told herself. It was frustration—at Damien, at this entire situation.

She was here because she had no choice.

The moment the invitation arrived, sealed with Damien’s insignia, she knew refusing wasn’t an option. A refusal would have been seen as defiance, and she had already been warned once.

She wasn’t naïve.

This was no ordinary gala.

This was Damien Moretti’s world—a world of power, blood, and ruthless men who thrived in the shadows.

And tonight, she was stepping into the lion’s den.

---

The moment she arrived at the venue, Elena felt the weight of a hundred scrutinizing eyes.

The gala was held at one of the city’s most exclusive hotels, where chandeliers dripped with crystals, and the scent of wealth and danger clung to the air like expensive cologne. The ballroom was a sea of elegance, filled with men in tailored suits and women draped in gowns that cost more than Elena’s yearly rent.

She exhaled slowly, reminding herself to keep her chin up, her back straight. She had learned long ago how to survive in places she didn’t belong.

But this?

This was different.

She wasn’t just a spectator here—she was the center of attention.

And she knew exactly why.

She could feel his presence before she even saw him.

Damien was watching her.

From across the room, his gaze burned into her, dark and possessive. He stood near the bar, exuding effortless authority, his black suit perfectly tailored to his powerful frame. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes told a different story—one of dominance, control, and something else she couldn’t name.

She swallowed hard and forced herself to look away.

But Damien wasn’t the only one who had noticed her.

"Quite the entrance," a smooth voice murmured from beside her.

Elena turned, meeting the gaze of Nico Castellano. He was striking in a different way from Damien—his charm more polished, his danger more veiled.

"Didn’t realize I had an audience," she said lightly, though she knew better.

"Everything in this room is worth watching," Nico said, his gaze lingering on her. "But you? You’re a rarity."

Elena wasn’t foolish enough to mistake his words for innocent flattery. In this world, everything had an agenda.

Still, she found herself offering a small smile. "I’m sure Damien would disagree."

Nico’s lips curled into an amused smirk. "That’s exactly why I’m intrigued."

Before she could respond, a strong, unyielding hand wrapped around her waist.

The air shifted, the temperature in the room seeming to plummet.

Elena didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

Damien.

He stepped between them, his body a solid wall of dominance and unspoken threat. "Castellano," he greeted smoothly, though his grip on Elena tightened possessively.

Nico chuckled, completely unfazed. "Moretti."

"You’re in my seat," Damien said, his voice deceptively calm.

Nico raised a brow but stepped back, giving Elena a knowing look before disappearing into the crowd. 

The moment he was gone, Damien turned his full attention to her. “You’re playing a dangerous game, dolcezza.”

Elena lifted her chin. “I didn’t realize talking was off-limits.”

His fingers traced the bare skin of her back, sending an involuntary shiver through her. “With him, it is.”

Before she could argue, he pulled her onto the dance floor.

The music shifted to something slow and sensual, the kind of melody that forced bodies close and breath to mingle.

“Damien—”

“Dance.” His voice was low, commanding.

Elena clenched her teeth but obeyed, knowing fighting him here would only give him more power.

His grip was firm, his movements effortless as he guided her through the dance. Every step, every touch, was a silent statement—she belonged to him.

“You look beautiful,” he murmured, his lips near her ear.

She swallowed hard, refusing to let the heat of his words affect her. “You’re wasting your time.”

“Am I?” His fingers pressed into her hip. “You’re here. In my arms. Fighting it, but not leaving.”

The worst part?

He was right.

She hated that he knew it.

But before she could snap back, the energy in the room shifted.

The change was subtle at first. The air grew heavier, conversations hushed. Elena felt it before she saw it—the tension rippling through the crowd like an unspoken warning.

Damien’s body stiffened, his hand moving instinctively to the inside of his jacket where she knew he kept a weapon.

Something was wrong.

And then—

“Elena.”

The voice was barely a whisper, but it sent ice through her veins.

A man in a dark suit brushed past her, his face partially obscured by a mask.

He pressed something into her palm—a small, metallic object—before vanishing into the crowd.

Elena’s breath caught in her throat.

She glanced down at her hand. A key.

And then the words followed, barely more than a ghost against her skin.

“Trust no one.”

A chill raced down her spine.

She whipped her head up, searching the crowd for the man, but he was gone—swallowed by the sea of bodies.

“Elena?” Damien’s voice was sharp, laced with suspicion.

She quickly clenched the key in her fist, hiding it from view. “It’s nothing.”

His eyes narrowed, but before he could push further, one of his men approached, his face tight with urgency.

“Boss,” the man murmured. “We have a problem.”

Elena saw it then—the moment Damien Moretti shifted from possessive lover to ruthless mafia king.

His entire demeanor changed, his grip on her loosening as his focus sharpened.

The gala was no longer just a dance of deception.

It had become a battlefield.

And Elena was caught in the middle.