A Veil Of Vengeance

Chapter 2: The Don’s Shadow

Damian’s POV

Another shipment’s delayed, boss. Vito’s gravelly voice cut through the haze of cigar smoke in the back room of Velvet Pulse. “Moretti’s goons are sniffing around our docks again.

I leaned back in my leather chair, swirling the whiskey in my glass, the hand of Hamsa tattoo on my arm catching the dim light. “Lorenzo Moretti’s getting bold. Thinks he can choke my supply lines and I’ll blink. Set up a tail on his runners. I want names by dawn.

“Already on it.” Vito cracked his knuckles, his loyalty as solid as the steel in his eyes. “But there’s chatter. Someone new in town. An artist. Showed up at the club tonight.

“An artist?” I raised an eyebrow, glancing at the security feed on my tablet. The stage was empty, but the crowd still buzzed from her performance. “What’s so special about her?

She’s got… presence. Vito shrugged, scratching his beard. “Spoken-word type. Lia Russo. Folks are saying she’s got your attention.

My attention’s on business, not poets. I smirked, but curiosity tugged. She’s any good?

Good enough to pack the house. He nodded toward the door. She’s out there now. You want her vetted?

“Later.” I stood, adjusting my black suit. Let’s see what this Lia Russo’s about first.

You’re staring, boss, Vito muttered as we stepped into the club’s main floor, the bass thumping like a heartbeat. The VIP section overlooked the chaos—neon lights, bodies swaying, glasses clinking.

“Observing,” I corrected, my eyes locking on her. Lia Russo. Dark hair falling in waves, black dress hugging her frame, moving through the crowd like she owned it. Her poem had been sharp, raw—words about shadows and power that hit too close to home.

She’s trouble, Nonna Isabella’s voice echoed in my head from our call earlier. “New faces mean new risks, Damian. Trust no one.”

Mr. Volkov?” My bouncer, Sal, approached, his bulk blocking my view. “That artist, Lia? She’s asking about the VIP list for your gala next week.

Is she done now? I sipped my whiskey, intrigued. “Bring her up. Let’s have a chat.

On it, boss.” Sal hesitated, then lowered his voice. “She was eyeing my keychain. The pendant. Looked spooked.

My grip tightened on the glass. The pendant—a Volkov heirloom, tied to old blood feuds. “Spooked how?”

Like she’d seen a ghost. Sal shrugged. Want me to dig into her?

Not yet.” I kept my tone even, but my mind raced. Get her up here. Now.

You’re Lia Russo.” I leaned against the VIP railing as she approached, her steps confident but her eyes wary, like a cat sizing up a predator. That was quite a performance.

Thank you, Mr. Volkov.” Her voice was smooth, with a faint Italian lilt that stirred something in me. “Didn’t expect the king of New York to notice.”

King? I chuckled, stepping closer, catching a hint of jasmine from her. Flattery won’t get you far, but it’s a start. What’s your story, Lia?

Just an artist chasing a dream.” She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Heard your club’s the place to be seen.

It’s my club. I decide who’s seen.” I studied her, noting the way she held herself—poised, but ready to bolt. Why poetry? You don’t strike me as the starving-artist type.

Maybe I like surprises.” She tilted her head, dark eyes meeting mine without flinching. “What about you? Why a club? You don’t seem like the dancing type.

“Control.” I let the word hang, watching her reaction. “This place, these people, they move when I say. You like control, Lia?

Who doesn’t? Her lips curved, a challenge in her gaze. “But control’s an illusion, isn’t it? One wrong move, and it slips.

Bold words for a newcomer.” I stepped closer, close enough to see the pulse in her neck quicken. What’s your game, Lia Russo?

No game. She held my stare, unflinching. just here to make art. Maybe make a name.

Then you picked the right place. I gestured to the club. But names come with a price. You ready to pay it?

“Depends on the cost.” Her voice stayed steady, but her fingers brushed her wrist, like she was hiding something. A wire? A weapon?

Stick around, and you’ll find out.” I nodded to Sal. “Get her on the gala list. My personal guest.

Her eyes widened, just a flicker. “That’s… generous. Why me?

You’re interesting. I leaned in, voice low. “And I like interesting things. Don’t disappoint me, Lia.”

I ’ll try not to.” She smiled, but it was sharp, like she was playing a game I hadn’t figured out yet.

Damian, we need to talk.” Nonna’s voice crackled through my phone as Lia descended the VIP stairs, her silhouette vanishing into the crowd. “You’re distracted. That girl is trouble.

She’s just an artist, Nonna. I kept my tone light, but my gut twisted. Lia’s confidence, that lilt, the way she dodged my questions—it didn’t add up.

Artists don’t look at pendants like they’ve seen the devil. Nonna’s voice was steel. “The family’s watching, Damian. Lorenzo Moretti’s circling, and you’re inviting strangers into our world?”

Lorenzo’s a snake. I’ll handle him.” I glanced at the security feed, catching Lia slip into a back hallway. She’s harmless. I’m vetting her.

Harmless? Nonna scoffed. “Your father thought the same before the fire took him. Dig into her, Damian. Now.”

“I will.” I hung up, jaw tight, and signaled Vito. Run a check on Lia Russo. Deep dive. I want everything.

Thought you said she was just an artist. Vito smirked, but his eyes were serious.

She is. I drained my whiskey, watching the hallway where she’d disappeared.

“Boss!” Sal burst through the crowd, his face pale. We got a problem. Lorenzo’s men just hit our warehouse. And… they left a message.

“What message?” My voice was ice, but my blood ran hot.

Sal swallowed, holding up his phone. A grainy photo showed a crate in our warehouse, spray-painted with a single word: Traitor. Next to it, a pendant identical to the one on Sal’s keychain—my family’s heirloom, dangled from a noose.

Who the hell knows about that pendant?” I snapped, my eyes darting to the hallway where Lia had vanished.