Semua Bab The Devil's Mistress: Bab 81 - Bab 90

ROXANNE POVI leaned against the kitchen door frame, arms folded lightly beneath my chest, watching the chaos unfold in the most heartwarming way.Damien stood at the counter in a simple black tee, sleeves rolled just slightly to his elbows as he wrestled with a bowl of cake batter. His brows furrowed in intense concentration while Mrs. Jones stood to the side, arms crossed like a judgmental judge on one of those baking shows, correcting him every time he started mixing too hard or added too much flour."No, no, not like that, Mr. Raphaël," She said for the third time in the last five minutes. "Be gentle with the batter." Angelina giggled, flour smeared on her cheeks and her oversized apron dragging just a little near her feet. "You’re failing, Daddy!" Damien glanced over his shoulder, smirking a bit. "Watch your mouth, princess. You’re supposed to be my teammate." Angelina’s response was a toothy grin as she skipped over, clinging to his side and reaching for the cookie cutters. M

DAMIEN RAPHAËL POV The air up here was quiet. Still. Like death before it made its final move. I crouched near the edge of the old tower’s ledge, the concrete cool beneath my gloves, the metal of the rifle resting heavy on my forearm. A sleek, military-grade sniper rifle with custom grip, modified trigger, suppressor intact. The kind of toy that whispered kill instead of screamed it. Dahlia stood a few feet behind me with that same unimpressed look she wore when I ignored her intel briefs. She was leaning against a rusted steel beam with a cigarette tucked between her fingers. Below us, a busy market stretched wide with flea stalls, flower vendors, food trucks, it was loud and bustling. The usual spot. And somewhere among them, the man I came to kill would be taking his regular stroll, oblivious. He wasn’t high-profile. Just a middleman with sticky fingers and a big mouth. Pushed dope across the wrong borders, and skimmed off the top from one of my client’s shipments. Said so

ROXANNE POV I sat in the passenger seat of Damien’s car, watching the blur of buildings and trees slip past as he drove. We’d just left my therapy orientation, a surreal experience, to say the least, and were now heading toward Angelina’s school to pick her up before stopping by Mr. Jones’s clinic. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but the opportunity lingered in my mind since he handed me that card. I curled my fingers in my lap, then glanced over at Damien as he drove, one hand loosely gripping the steering wheel, the other resting on the gear. "Thomas came up empty." I said after a pause. He flicked his gaze toward me, silent for a moment. "He said he couldn’t find anything about which prison my father’s in. Or even...who he really was." I said, fingers fiddling with the seatbelt strap across my lap. Damien’s jaw tensed subtly. "We’ll figure it out," He said, eyes back on the road. "Don't stress yourself too much about what's buried. Once you start therapy, the memories

ROXANNE POV I linked pinkies with Angelina and we sealed it with a giggle. We opened the food and started to eat, occasionally passing the corn or fries between us, giggling about how spicy the sauce was or how the syrupy fruit punch stained our tongues red. I was about to wipe her cheek with a tissue when something in the distance pulled my attention. I looked past the crowd and food stalls, across the miniature game booths and rows of folding chairs. There he was. Damien. Dressed in a fitted black polo shirt with the sleeves hugging his arms and a simple pair of ash-grey trousers that did unspeakable things to his stride, he walked through the crowd with an ease that commanded attention. His watch glinted in the sun, and even his damn shoes looked like they could outdress a runway. That was Damien Raphaël. Always sharp even when surrounded by sticky children. I didn’t say anything to Angelina. I just watched quietly, lips curled in a small smile, waiting for the moment. It

ROXANNE POV After we left the rooftop restaurant, Damien drove in silence, his fingers occasionally drumming against the steering wheel as soft music played low in the background. The city lights glimmered past my window like scattered diamonds, but I wasn’t paying much attention to the view. My mind replayed the way he placed that necklace around my neck, how his touch lingered on my skin like a quiet promise. We slowed in front of a place I’d never seen before in the city. It wasn’t loud or flashy. There were no giant neon signs, no grand water fountains gushing in pretentious rhythm. Just a sleek, modern hotel tucked between a designer boutique and a wine bar with frosted glass doors and gold-trimmed lamps that glowed like candles. "Where are we?" I asked softly, already stepping out as Damien circled around the front. "A place I bought off-market. I needed something private." He said casually, handing the car keys to a valet before pulling a leather duffel from the backseat.