Chapter 6: The Devil You Don’t Know

The chaos of the ballroom still clung to Elena’s skin as Damien pulled her through the darkened corridors of the estate, his grip firm yet careful. Outside, the cool night air was sharp against her flushed cheeks, but it did nothing to steady the storm raging in her chest.

Nico had stayed behind, tending to his wounded men, but not before shooting Damien a knowing look—one that had sent a new wave of frustration through her. She had no time to decipher it. Damien had practically dragged her into the waiting car, barking orders to his men before the tires screeched against the pavement.

Now, the city lights blurred past the windows as they sped away from the wreckage of the gala, the tension in the car thick enough to choke on. Damien sat beside her, his jaw clenched, one hand gripping the wheel while the other rested near his holster, as if expecting another attack at any moment.

Elena exhaled shakily, trying to make sense of it all. The masked man, the key, the ambush—DeLuca sends his regards.

“Where are we going?” she asked, her voice quieter than she intended.

“Somewhere safe,” Damien said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

She wasn’t sure she believed that anymore.

Then, just as they turned onto a deserted stretch of road, the car jerked to a sudden stop.

Elena’s breath hitched.

Up ahead, a lone vehicle idled in the middle of the road, its headlights cutting through the darkness like two burning eyes.

A figure stepped into view, illuminated by the glow.

Lorenzo Valenti.

A slow, knowing smile stretched across his face as he stood there, hands in his pockets, completely unbothered by the fact that he was blocking the path of one of the most dangerous men in the city.

Damien’s fingers flexed against the steering wheel, his entire body coiled with tension.

Elena’s stomach twisted.

This night wasn’t over.

Not even close. 

The car was silent, save for the steady hum of the engine.

Elena’s pulse pounded in her ears as she stared at the man standing in the middle of the road. Lorenzo Valenti. His presence carried an effortless menace, a danger wrapped in silk. Even from a distance, she could see the smirk playing on his lips, as if he found amusement in blocking Damien Moretti’s path.

“You’ve been busy tonight, Moretti.” Lorenzo’s voice was smooth, almost bored, but there was something sharp beneath it.

Damien didn’t react immediately. Instead, he drummed his fingers once against the steering wheel before exhaling slowly, as if reigning in his temper. Then, with a measured calm that made Elena’s stomach twist, he pushed open the door and stepped out.

“Elena,” he said without looking at her, “stay in the car.”

Elena knew better than to listen.

Ignoring his warning, she opened her door and stepped onto the pavement, the night air chilling her exposed skin. She wasn’t about to be left out of whatever this was.

Lorenzo’s gaze slid to her the moment she emerged.

“Well, well,” he mused, his smirk deepening. “And who is this lovely creature?”

Damien’s jaw tightened. “None of your business.”

Elena felt Lorenzo’s eyes linger on her, assessing, calculating. He was tall, his presence just as commanding as Damien’s, but where Damien’s intensity burned hot, Lorenzo’s was quieter—colder.

“I’d say she looks like my business.” Lorenzo stepped closer, his gaze unwavering. “You don’t usually bring dates to your wars, Moretti. This one must be special.”

Damien’s shoulders tensed, his body shifting ever so slightly—a silent warning.

Elena knew she had two choices: stand there like a bystander or step into the role she had no choice but to play.

So she smiled.

Slipping closer to Damien, she let her fingers graze his arm, her voice light, teasing. “You shouldn’t flatter yourself, Mr. Valenti. Damien isn’t in the habit of explaining himself to anyone.”

Lorenzo chuckled, clearly entertained. “Ah. A sharp tongue.” He studied her for a beat before tilting his head. “And yet, I can’t help but wonder... how much of this is real?”

The air between them crackled with unspoken tension.

Elena held his gaze, refusing to falter.

Damien, however, was losing patience. “If you have a point, Valenti, make it. I don’t have time for your games.”

Lorenzo exhaled dramatically. “Such a shame. I was hoping we could have a civilized conversation.” He reached into his pocket, and for the briefest second, Damien’s entire body tensed, his hand twitching toward his weapon.

But Lorenzo only pulled out a small black card.

He stepped closer—too close—and before Elena could react, he slipped it into her palm. His fingers brushed against hers, the touch lingering just long enough to make her stomach knot.

“When you’re ready to escape,” Lorenzo murmured, his voice just for her, “call me.”

A chill ran down her spine.

Damien saw it.

He said nothing.

Not yet.

Lorenzo grinned, clearly pleased with himself, before stepping back. “Well, this has been fun. Drive safe, Moretti.”

And just like that, he strolled back to his car, moving with the easy confidence of a man who had just planted a seed of chaos and was more than happy to watch it grow.

Elena swallowed hard, her fingers tightening around the card.

Damien’s voice was low, controlled.

“Get in the car.”

She obeyed.

As Damien pulled onto the road, his grip on the wheel was tight, his silence louder than any threat he could’ve spoken.

Elena stared down at the card in her hand, her heart pounding.

She had no doubt—this wasn’t over. 

———

The penthouse was silent, save for the rhythmic click of Damien’s shoes against the marble floor. He was pacing, a slow, deliberate prowl, like a predator caged too long.

Elena stood near the floor-to-ceiling windows, arms crossed tightly, trying to ignore the storm brewing behind her. The city stretched endlessly below, glittering and indifferent to the bloodshed that had stained the night.

She could still hear the gunshots.

Still feel the weight of Lorenzo’s card burning a hole in her pocket.

Her fingers curled into a fist.

“You shouldn’t have left the car.”

Damien’s voice cut through the silence. Low. Controlled.

Elena turned slowly. He had stopped pacing, his sharp gaze locked onto her, full of something dark and unreadable.

“I’m not one of your men, Damien,” she said, her voice steady despite the tension in the room. “You don’t get to give me orders.”

A muscle in his jaw ticked. “You don’t understand the kind of men we dealt with tonight.”

“Don’t I?” She let out a bitter laugh. “I was there, remember? The one dodging bullets while you played executioner?”

His eyes darkened. “I was protecting you.”

Elena exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through her hair. “You keep saying that, but maybe I wouldn’t need protecting if you hadn’t dragged me into this world in the first place.”

Damien moved then, slow and deliberate, until he was in front of her. Close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him.

His voice dropped. “And yet, Nico Castellano seemed very eager to protect you, didn’t he?”

Elena’s breath caught.

So this was what had been gnawing at him.

She forced herself to meet his gaze. “Maybe because he’s not treating me like a prisoner.”

A flicker of something dangerous flashed across Damien’s face, but it was gone before she could decipher it.

His fingers grazed her chin, tilting her head up slightly. “You don’t know Castellano the way I do.”

“And you don’t know me the way you think you do,” she shot back.

For a moment, they just stood there, locked in a silent battle.

Then, the tension snapped.

Damien’s mouth crashed against hers, raw and demanding.

Elena didn’t think—didn’t want to think. She kissed him back with the same desperation, the same reckless hunger that had been simmering between them for far too long.

It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t gentle.

It was a collision—anger, desire, frustration, all tangled into one.

His hands gripped her waist, pulling her flush against him as they stumbled back against the glass. Elena gasped as the cold surface met her spine, a stark contrast to the fire consuming them.

Her fingers found the buttons of his shirt, fumbling, needing more, needing something to drown out the chaos in her head.

Damien groaned against her lips, his grip tightening. “You drive me insane,” he muttered, his breath hot against her skin.

Elena shivered, but whether from his touch or the sheer intensity of it all, she wasn’t sure.

She didn’t care.

She just wanted to forget.

And for a while, she did.

The room was still.

The only sounds were their breaths, gradually slowing.

Elena lay beside him, tangled in sheets, her body aching in ways that had nothing to do with the violence of the night.

But the guilt crept in, slow and insidious.

She turned her head, watching Damien as he lay there, eyes closed, his chest rising and falling in steady rhythm.

What the hell was she doing?

She couldn’t keep doing this—losing herself in him, letting passion cloud the reality of her situation.

Because no matter how much heat there was between them, she was still trapped.

Still his.

And somewhere, in the pocket of her discarded dress, Lorenzo Valenti’s card still waited...