The safehouse was a skeleton of a place—cracked walls, the faint smell of mold, a flickering bulb that hummed like a nervous insect. Yet to Adriana, it felt heavier than the grand halls of the Rossi estate. Because here, there was no family watching, no duty pressing on her shoulders. Only silence. Only him.
Damian moved like a storm contained in flesh—restless, dangerous, pacing the room as though the walls themselves offended him. His black shirt clung to his skin, damp with sweat and soot. The fire had chased them here, but the war lingered in his veins, coiled tight, waiting to strike.
Adriana sat on the edge of the old wooden table, her hands trembling from exhaustion she refused to show. She felt his anger radiating off him, but beneath it, she sensed something else. The same thing
