Chapter 4

The mansion, still scarred by the recent breach, felt like a pressure cooker sealed by fear. Luna sat confined to her private parlor, nursing the dull, insistent ache in her temple. The bruise, a raw bloom of purple and yellow, was a physical reminder of the attack, validating her father’s panic.

She was waiting. Her father’s promise echoed in her mind: he would find a true "ghost," a "shadow" who operates without sentiment. The sense of dread was focused entirely on the unknown professional her father was hiring.

Rocco Santini, disgraced and humiliated, paced just outside her door. He sensed the new man would be beyond his understanding.

The moment the new arrival stepped onto the property, the atmosphere in the house changed instantly. The background noise of nervous staff chatter vanished. A profound, almost unnatural stillness descended.

Rocco stopped pacing instantly. Luna felt the change physically, a cold prickling sensation that traveled from her scalp down her spine.

A moment later, the door to the parlor opened not by Rocco, but by the Don himself. He was smiling, a perfect, expansive smile of relief and desperate hope, trying hard to impress the professional he desperately needed.

The man who entered behind the Don was a stark, commanding silhouette of controlled power. At thirty-three, he carried his age like a weapon, adding an edge of lethal, clinical experience. He was tall, immensely broad, and moved with a terrifying economy of motion. His dark suit presented a portrait of absolute, unreadable control.

His face was hard, handsome in a brutal, uncompromising way. His jaw was strong, his mouth set in a permanent, severe line that communicated authority and nothing more. But it was his eyes, the colour of dark, cold smoke, that instantly locked Luna into a fresh, agonizing state of paralysis.

Luna’s breath hitched, her body freezing as she registered the immense presence filling the room. She was profoundly aware of the scrutiny, the feeling of being cataloged and assessed by this terrifying stranger.

The Don walked toward Luna, his hand resting gently on her shoulder, maintaining his flawless affectionate facade. "Mia Cara," he murmured, his voice smooth and reassuring, layered with effort. "This is Volkov. He is going to be your shadow now."

He gestured grandly toward the immense man. "Volkov, this is my princess, Luna. She is... sensitive. A beautiful, silent flower, the light of my life. You will ensure her safety is absolute."

Damon Volkov took a single, slow step further into the room. He didn't offer a hand, didn't nod, and his expression remained utterly unchanged. His eyes, cold and assessing, swept over her small, trembling form, lingering for a fraction of a second on the bruise blooming on her temple, the physical proof of the breach he was here to fix. There was no sympathy in that observation, only a cold, factual appraisal of the risk.

Then, he spoke.

His voice was low, rich, and utterly flat, a terrifying instrument that commanded immediate attention, a deep, resonant rumble that seemed to vibrate the very air in the parlor.

"Understood, Don Vitiello," he said. Just three words. A statement of cold, professional agreement.

The Don beamed, relieved by the lack of argument and the display of competence. "Excellent! Now, Volkov, you will be her shadow. You will monitor all her movements, all her contacts. You have my full authority. She needs to listen to you. You are responsible for my daughter's safety."

Damon Volkov’s dark eyes did not leave Luna. He registered the slight tremor in her hands, the rapid flutter of her eyelids as she fought to maintain her composure. He filed away her fear as calculated data.

He spoke again, his voice just as low, just as terrifyingly resonant. "I will ensure stability."

Ensure stability. The phrase seemed to hang in the air between the man and Luna, a chilling promise of total control. He was promising her an inescapable form of observation.

Luna felt the blood drain from her face. The pressure in her throat intensified, a sickening, familiar tightness that blocked the desperate, soundless plea she wanted to utter. The look in his eyes, utterly unreadable, but undeniably focused, was a direct promise of the suffering that absolute control would bring.

Volkov held her gaze for one long, silent, suffocating moment before acknowledging the Don. Luna's breathing was shallow, rapid, and soundless.

"Rocco," the Don said, his voice now cold, "You will brief Volkov fully. He is in charge now. Get him the security maps, the routine, everything."

Damon Volkov gave a minuscule nod, the only answer needed. He turned and followed Rocco out, his massive frame eclipsing the doorway. Luna remained sitting, locked in her silent paralysis, her focus fixed on the space he had just occupied.

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The slow-burn had begun.