The Trillionaire's Blood Claim

Chapter Two — The Mafia King

Damien Blackwood did not lower the gun.

Rain still drummed against the high windows of the warehouse, but inside the air had gone completely still. The three men who served him waited in silence, trained never to speak unless ordered. The body on the floor continued to bleed, ignored.

Damien’s attention remained fixed on the young man standing ten paces away.

Elliot Vale.

One hundred and eighty centimeters. Medium-length black hair plastered to his face by rainwater. A lean, muscular frame that spoke of quiet discipline rather than bulk. Features that managed to be both beautiful and sharply handsome at once. And those hazel eyes—gold and green shifting under the single bulb—staring back at him without dropping.

Most people looked away from Damien within seconds. This one did not.

Interesting.

Damien took a slow step forward. At one hundred and ninety-eight centimeters he towered over the younger man, the difference in height and muscle deliberate and absolute. Long black hair, still damp from the rain, framed his face. He knew exactly what the mismatched eyes did to people: the deep sea-blue one cold and assessing, the striking red one looking like it had been dipped in blood.

“Journalism student,” Damien said quietly, reading the truth in the way the boy held himself, in the cheap but functional jacket, in the stubborn set of his mouth. “You came here for a story.”

Elliot’s throat moved as he swallowed, but his voice came out steady. “I came here for the truth.”

A faint, humorless curve touched Damien’s mouth. “Truth is expensive. Sometimes it costs more than you can pay.”

He circled him once, slow, predatory. Elliot turned with him, refusing to leave his back exposed. Good instincts. Dangerous ones.

“How much did you see?” Damien asked.

“Enough.”

“And yet you are still breathing.” Damien stopped directly in front of him again. The gun remained steady, aimed at the center of Elliot’s chest. “That is not kindness. It is calculation. Give me a reason to continue calculating in your favor.”

Elliot’s hazel eyes flicked once to the body on the floor, then back to Damien’s face. “Killing a journalism student on the same night you execute someone else creates a mess. Bodies are easy. Attention is not.”

Damien studied him in silence for several long seconds. The boy was afraid—he could see the rapid pulse at the base of his throat—but the fear had not broken him. That rare combination of beauty and defiance stirred something cold and possessive in Damien’s chest.

Vale.

The surname sat wrong in his mind, like a half-remembered blade.

He had spent twenty-five years erasing every loose thread connected to the original Blackwood bloodline. The name Vale should have been nothing. And yet something about it pulled at the edges of old, buried files.

Damien’s red eye narrowed slightly.

“Full name,” he repeated, though he already had it.

“Elliot Vale.”

“Age.”

“Twenty-one.”

“Family.”

Elliot hesitated for the first time. “Dead. Both parents.”

Damien did not believe him. Or rather, he believed the boy thought it was true.

He lowered the gun at last, though he did not holster it. The message was clear: the threat remained.

“You will come with me,” Damien said.

Elliot’s chin lifted. “And if I refuse?”

Damien stepped closer until the younger man had to tilt his head back to hold his gaze. The difference in their sizes was almost cruel. Long black hair slipped forward over Damien’s shoulder as he leaned down just enough for his next words to be heard by Elliot alone.

“You will not refuse.”

He straightened and spoke without looking away from those defiant hazel eyes.

“Take him.”

Two of his men moved forward immediately. Elliot tensed, muscles coiling under his wet clothes, but he did not fight when they gripped his arms. Pride, Damien noted. Or perhaps the understanding that resistance right now would only get him hurt.

Damien turned toward the exit, already calculating the next moves. The warehouse would be cleaned. The body would disappear. And Elliot Vale would be delivered to the main estate under full security.

As he walked, he spoke over his shoulder to the remaining man, voice calm and absolute.

“I want everything on the Vale family. Every record. Every death certificate. Every whisper that still exists. Have it on my desk before sunrise.”

The man bowed his head. “Yes, sir.”

Damien stepped out into the rain without looking back.

Behind him, Elliot was guided toward one of the black cars. Damien did not need to turn to know those hazel eyes were still watching him—angry, frightened, and alive with questions he was not yet ready to answer.

Something about the name Vale had woken an old instinct.

And Damien Blackwood never ignored his instincts.

Especially not when they concerned the last living person who might be able to destroy everything he had built.