The heavy oak doors of the Moretti war room slammed shut behind Damian. The air inside was thick with smoke and tension, the scent of cigars curling with the sharp tang of whiskey. A dozen men sat around the long, blackened table, each bearing the mark of years in blood and shadows. Their faces turned as one when he entered.
No one spoke.
Damian’s presence was enough to command silence. His suit was still dusted with ash, his knuckles bloodied from the fight in the alleys, but his eyes—those merciless gray eyes—burned brighter than the fires smoldering in the hearth.
He took the head of the table, his hand slamming onto the polished wood.
“They dared.” His voice was low, lethal. “The Rossi council sent blades into my streets. They went after her. They’ve made this personal.”
Murmurs b
