The ballroom reeked of cordite and spilled blood. Broken glass glittered across the marble like fallen stars, each shard reflecting the c*****e of the night. Men groaned, dying, their loyalty bleeding onto Rossi floors.
Damian Moretti stood at the center of it all, his suit darkened with blood not his own. His chest heaved as he surveyed the wreckage, his hands trembling—not from fear, but from the fury caged within him.
Adriana was gone.
The absence cut deeper than the bullet that grazed his shoulder. He had seen her vanish in the storm of chaos, her dark hair swallowed by smoke. And now silence pressed in, broken only by the crackle of flames licking the curtains.
“Boss,” one of his lieutenants rasped, limping forward. “What are your orders?”
Damian’s jaw clenched. His voice was low
