Chapter 3 - The Price of Protection
By morning, news of the shattered peace treaty had sent shockwaves through New York’s underworld.
I woke to the smell of fresh espresso and warm pastries. A private chef had prepared a breakfast spread fit for royalty in our suite’s dining room. Emma was already sitting at the table, happily coloring in a brand-new art set that had been delivered to our door an hour earlier.
I stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, watching the city below. The streets looked normal, but I knew that beneath the surface, a brutal turf war was being waged.
Around noon, Damiano entered the suite. He wore a crisp dark gray suit, looking impeccably composed despite having slept perhaps two hours. Behind him came three men carrying heavy wardrobe racks filled with designer dresses, cashmere coats, and rows of handmade shoes.
“What is all this?” I asked, stepping back.
“You can’t wear a catering uniform forever, Sophia,” Damiano said smoothly, gesturing for the tailors to set the racks down. “And if you are to reside in the Moretti manor, you will dress like someone who belongs here.”
“I don't need charity, Damiano,” I said, my pride flaring up despite our desperate situation. “I worked two jobs to pay my rent. I don't need expensive silk to feel safe.”
Damiano motioned for the tailors to leave the room. Once the door clicked shut, he stepped closer to me, his overwhelming presence filling the space between us.
“It isn’t charity, Sophia,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “It’s armor. In my world, perception is survival. If the other families see you dressed in rags, they see a weakness they can exploit. If they see you dressed in silk and diamonds, protected by my signet, they see an untouchable queen.”
The word queen hung in the air, thick and heavy with unspoken implications.
“I was never supposed to marry Victoria Vance,” Damiano added softly, his eyes searching my face. “The alliance was forced on me by the old Commission lords to keep the peace. But Victoria was ambitious, cruel, and foolish. She thought she could blow up my house and claim my seat.”
“And now?” I asked, my heart pounding against my ribs.
“Now, the old rules are dead,” Damiano replied, stepping so close I could feel the heat radiating from his body. “And I choose who sits beside me.”
Before I could process his words, a muffled thud echoed from the corridor outside our suite.
Damiano’s posture shifted in a fraction of a second. The smooth, calm gentleman vanished, replaced instantly by the lethal apex predator. He pulled a silenced pistol from his shoulder holster, shoving me gently behind his back.
“Stay behind me,” he ordered in a low growl. “Emma, under the table. Now.”
Emma didn't hesitate; she scrambled under the heavy mahogany dining table, pulling her rag doll to her chest.
The heavy suite doors suddenly buckled inward with a metallic crash. Two men dressed in black tactical gear burst through the threshold, weapons raised.
They were Vance mercenaries—a suicide squad sent to strike at the heart of the Moretti estate while the main forces were deployed across the city.
Damiano didn't waste a breath. He raised his sidearm and fired three lightning-fast shots. The first intruder dropped instantly, a bullet hole precisely between his eyes. The second mercenary returned fire, the deafening pop-pop-pop of automatic rounds shattering the crystal chandelier above our heads.
Glass rained down like falling stars. I screamed, covering my head, but Damiano stepped directly into the line of fire, shielding my body with his broad frame.
He took a grazing round to his upper left shoulder, but he didn't even flinch. He closed the distance in two lunging strides, grabbed the mercenary’s rifle barrel, twisted it with bone-snapping force, and drove a combat knife deep beneath the man’s ribs.
The mercenary collapsed onto the marble floor, motionless.
Silence slammed back into the room. Smoke drifted toward the high ceiling.
Damiano stood panting, his shirt torn over his shoulder, blood seeping through the dark gray fabric. He didn't look at the dead men on his floor. He turned around immediately, his dark eyes frantic as he scanned my body.
“Sophia,” he gasped, his hands reaching out to cup my face. His palm was warm, trembling slightly with adrenaline. “Are you hurt? Tell me. Are you hit?!”
“I’m... I’m okay,” I sobbed, my hands grabbing his bloodied jacket for balance. “Damiano, you’re bleeding!”
“It’s nothing,” he rasped, looking over my shoulder toward the table. “Emma?”
Emma peeked out from under the tablecloth, her eyes wide as saucers, but she didn't cry. “I stayed down, Mr. Damiano! Just like you said!”
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A ragged breath escaped Damiano’s lungs. He pulled me into his chest, wrapping his arms around me with a desperate, fierce possessiveness that took my breath away. Held against his solid, heartbeat-pounding chest, surrounded by the smell of gunsmoke and his cedar cologne, I realized something terrifying.
I was falling in love with the most dangerous man in New York.
