Chapter 7 - Blood on the Velvet
"Don't move a muscle, Damian!" Sophia yelled, pointing her revolver directly at Elena's head. "Your little maid here is very special. Do you have any idea who you've been harboring in your house?"
Damian didn't raise his gun. He slowly walked forward, his tall frame cutting through the crowd like a warship parting dark waters. The atmosphere in the lounge grew so thick with tension that no one dared to draw a breath.
"I don't care who she is, Sophia," Damian said smoothly, his silver eyes fixed on the woman holding the gun. "I care that you are standing in my venue, holding a weapon near my property."
"Property?" Sophia laughed hysterically. "She's not your property! She's Elena Vance! Daughter of Thomas Vance, the district attorney who tried to put us all in federal prison! She’s been using you, Damian! She faked her identity to hide under your protection while she searches for her father's syndicate ledger!"
The announcement hit the room like a bomb.
The surrounding mafia bosses whispered in shock. Vance. The name was legendary in the Chicago underworld—a symbol of federal prosecution and betrayal.
Damian stopped ten feet away. His expression didn't change. Not a single muscle in his face twitched. He showed no surprise, no anger, no shock.
"Is that true, Elena?" Damian asked quietly, his voice devoid of emotion.
Elena stood frozen between them, her chest heaving, tears finally spilling over her lashes. She looked at Damian—the man who had given her a home, protected her from his own brother, and treated her with a dark, terrifying tender care.
"Yes," Elena whispered, her voice cracking. "My father was Thomas Vance. But I never wanted to use you, Damian. I was just trying to survive."
Sophia grinned triumphantly. "You see? She's an informant! Kill her, Damian! Or stand aside and let me do it!"
Damian took a slow, deep breath. He raised his silver eyes to Sophia Moretti.
"You came into my house's jurisdiction," Damian murmured softly. "You threatened my staff. And now you dare tell me who to kill in my own city?"
Before Sophia could process his words, Damian moved with blinding, inhuman speed.
THWACK!
Damian’s hand whipped forward, firing a single suppressed round through the forehead of the enforcer standing to Sophia’s right. Blood spattered across the velvet wall.
Chaos erupted.
Guests screamed and hit the floor. Damian grabbed Elena by the waist, violently pulling her behind his broad body as he ducked behind a heavy marble pillar. Bullets smashed into the plaster above their heads, raining white dust down on their hair.
"Stay down!" Damian roared over the deafening gunfire.
His guards opened fire, engaging Sophia’s men in a brutal, point-blank firefight. The VIP lounge turned into a war zone of shattered glass, flying wood splinters, and screaming patrons.
Elena cowered against the marble pillar, holding her hands over her ears, her heart threatening to burst.
Damian leaned out from behind the pillar, firing three precise shots. Two more of Sophia's men collapsed into pools of blood on the parquet floor.
Sophia, realizing she was heavily outgunned, ducked into the service stairwell, her loud heels fading as she fled into the night.
Within ninety seconds, the gunfire stopped.
The VIP lounge was silent, save for the groans of dying men and the soft dripping of water from shattered fire sprinklers.
Damian stood up slowly, stepping over a body, his suppressed pistol smoking in his hand. He turned around to face Elena.
He towered over her, covered in gun dust and blood splatters, looking like a demon freshly risen from hell.
He didn't say a word. He reached down, grabbed her arm with an iron grip, and dragged her out of the ruined lounge toward the private elevator.
"Damian... please," Elena wept, stumbling behind him as he pulled her along. "Damian, let me explain!"
Damian ignored her. He slammed the button for the private basement garage, his jaw set like concrete, his silver eyes completely dead.
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He pushed her into the back of his armored dark SUV, slammed the door shut, and climbed into the driver's seat.
He slammed his foot on the accelerator, tearing out of the parking garage into the rainy Chicago night at eighty miles an hour.
