The devil's last bride

Chapter 4: The house rules

The shrill pulse of the alarm cut through the villa, painting the high marble walls in rhythm with red emergency lights. Damien didn't waste a second. Before Elena could even process the sound, his hand closed

firmly around her forearm. He ushered her down a narrow side hallway, pulling open a heavy steel-reinforced door that looked like a seamless part of the wood paneling.

"Stay inside," Damien ordered, his voice flat and entirely steady despite the siren blaring above them. "Don't open this door for anyone except me or Mike. Understand?"

"Damien, wait-" "Understand, Elena?" he repeated, his dark eyes locking onto hers with absolute authority. She swallowed her panic and gave a single nod. "Yes." He shut the door, and the heavy electronic lock engaged with a solid, echoing thud. The safe room was dimly lit, scented lightly with cedar and leather. Elena stood in the center

of the small space, listening through the thick walls. A minute passed in agonizing silence. Then came the muted, rhythmic pop-pop-pop of suppressed gunfire from outside, followed by the screech of tires tearing across wet gravel.

Then, silence returned. Ten long minutes passed before the electronic lock clicked and the heavy door swung open. Damien stood in the frame, his black jacket gone and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He

was holding his gun at his side, his breathing completely measured, as if he had just finished a routine walk through the gardens.

Behind him, Mike was leaning against the wall, holstering his own weapon while wiping rain from his forehead.

"Probe," Mike reported casually, tossing a spent casing into his hand like a coin. "Three guys in an unmarked van testing the gate sensors. They pulled back the second our perimeter team returned fire. Nobody got past the courtyard."

Elena stepped out of the safe room, looking between the two men. "They were testing your security?"

"They wanted to see how fast we respond now that there's a new variable in the house," Damien said. He motioned for her to follow him down the corridor toward his private study. "Now they know."

The Don's study was massive, lined with dark walnut bookshelves and dominated by a heavy

mahogany desk covered in neatly stacked manila folders. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting long, warm shadows across the room.

The Devil's Last BrideDamien walked behind his desk, sliding his weapon into a top drawer before leaning against

the polished wood.

"Here is how things work from tonight onward," Damien said, looking across at Elena. "You do

not leave this property without my personal escort. You do not place phone calls, send messages,

or open mail that hasn't been screened by Mike first. If you hear an alarm, you go straight to that

safe room."

Elena crossed her arms, her chest tightening. "You're describing a prison."

"I am describing survival," Damien corrected calmly. "Whoever arranged our marriage knows

you are here. To the outside world, you are my wife, which means you are the easiest target for

anyone looking to strike at me."

"I am not going to sit in a locked room waiting for answers," Elena replied, keeping her voice

completely level as she walked toward the desk. "If someone pulled me into this war, I have a

right to know why. My father's entire financial operation was built on contracts, shell

companies, and encrypted ledgers. I spent three years studying contract law and corporate fraud

—I know how he structures his files better than anyone."

Damien raised an eyebrow slightly, studying her face. "You think you can trace his money?"

"I know I can," Elena said, refusing to back down from his gaze. "My father brought those boxes

of files home from his office weeks ago because he was terrified. You brought those same boxes

here from my house today for safekeeping. Let me review them."

Mike let out a low whistle from the doorway. "She's got a point, boss. Arthur Rossi was a

ghost with numbers. Our guys have been staring at his bank statements for forty-eight hours

and all they've got is headaches."

Damien remained silent for a long moment, his dark eyes fixed on Elena. He seemed to be

weighing her resolve against the risk.

Finally, he gestured to a stack of heavy black binders sitting on a side table near the

fireplace.

"Everything we recovered from your father's study is in those boxes," Damien said. "You work in

this room. Under my supervision. If you find a single irregularity, you bring it to me first."

"Agreed," Elena said immediately.

She didn't waste time. Elena walked over to the side table, pulled down the first heavy

binder, and sat at the small round table near the fire.

For the next two hours, the only sound in the study was the soft rustle of paper and the

crackle of burning wood. Damien sat at his desk, reviewing his own reports, while Elena

systematically worked through her father's financial records.

Most of it was standard corporate fluff—dummy corporations registered in Switzerland, off-

shore accounts, and inflated consulting fees. But as Elena flipped through a thick leather-bound

ledger from three years ago, something caught her eye.

Her father had a very specific habit when he wanted to hide something from tax auditors.

The Devil's Last BrideWhenever he wrote down a sequence of transaction codes, he would shift the final two digits

based on a simple number puzzle he used to teach her when she was a child. Elena grabbed a pen and began working backward through the ledger's margin notes. The numbers aligned into a set of grid coordinates and right beside them, tucked inside the

inner lining of the leather binding, was a small, folded scrap of yellowed paper. Elena carefully pried the paper free with her fingernail. Unfolding it, she saw her father's

neat, sharp handwriting. It was a single line of text: Look where the black rose blooms.

Elena's heart skipped a beat. She stood up so fast her chair scraped loudly against the hardwood floor.

Damien looked up from his desk instantly. "What is it?" Elena held up the scrap of paper. "My father left a hidden note inside his old ledger. It's

written in a cipher he only used for private personal notes." Damien was around his desk in three long strides, taking the paper from her hand. His eyes

narrowed as he read the line written across the center. "What does it mean?" Elena asked. Before Damien could answer, the radio mounted on Mike's shoulder crackled to life with a

sharp burst of static. "Boss, you there?" a guard's voice came through, sounding tense. "We just got a feed from the city precinct. There's a scene down at the canal." Mike clicked his radio button. "What happened?"

"It's Don Salvatore Vanezza," the guard reported. "His detail found him in his car twenty minutes ago. Execution style. And boss... the shooter left something on his chest."

Damien's jaw tightened, his fingers crushing the small slip of paper in his grip. "A black

rose." "Yes, boss. Stamped right over his heart." Elena looked from the radio up to Damien's face. The silence in the room suddenly felt

heavy, suffocating. Don Vanezza was one of the oldest, most powerful bosses in the entire syndicate. His death

wouldn't just cause panic—it would trigger an all-out bloodbath among the families. Damien turned to Mike, his voice dropping into a cold, lethal register. "Get the cars ready.

The syndicate council is going to meet before sunrise, and every Don in the city is going to bring an army."

He turned back to Elena, his dark eyes burning with quiet intensity. "Pack your things," Damien said. "You're coming with me."