Tied to my mafia prince

Two

Damian had been watching her from the moment he walked into the gallery. The room was filled with soft laughter and the low hum of classical music, but none of it mattered. Not the flicker of champagne glasses raised in meaningless toasts. Not the murmured conversations about money and art. The moment his eyes found her, the world melted into a quiet blur, leaving only her — the woman who had somehow captured his entire attention without saying a single word.

She stood near the far corner of the room, her slim frame bathed in the golden glow of the overhead lights. There was something about her — something unpolished yet magnetic. Her beauty was not loud or practiced; it was raw, disarming, and utterly real. When she turned slightly, strands of dark hair brushed against her cheek, and his breath caught. Her lips parted softly as if she were about to speak to the painting before her, and when their eyes met, everything else fell away.

Even with the distance between them, Damian could tell that she wanted him. It was there in the way her gaze lingered, in the quick rise and fall of her chest, in the subtle way her lips parted before she bit them as though trying to silence the thought. The pull between them was undeniable, sharp, and alive. He felt it like a magnetic current that made his blood hum. She wanted him — and he wanted her just as fiercely.

And then she turned away. Just like that. As though she hadn’t felt it. As though that small eternity between their eyes had never happened.

Damian’s jaw tightened. He watched her move through the crowd, putting distance between them with every step. Next to him, the

gallery manager continued his nervous chatter, clinging to his side as though proximity might win him favor.

“Sir, if you’ll follow me, I’ll introduce you to the artist—”

Damian didn’t hear him. The manager’s voice was a dull hum against the background noise. His attention was anchored on Elena, on the curve of her back, the sway of her hips as she moved, the dark fall of her hair that brushed against the bare skin of her neck.

“Sir? Are you listening?” the manager asked, his voice trembling as he reached to touch Damian’s sleeve.

Damian turned his gaze slowly toward the hand resting on his arm. His expression shifted from distraction to something cold and dangerous. The silence stretched long enough for the man to begin to sweat.

“What’s your name?” Damian asked finally, his tone quiet, deceptively calm.

The manager’s face brightened instantly, misreading the question. “Michael, sir. It’s an honor that you—”

“Michael,” Damian interrupted, his voice like the edge of a blade. “Move your hand.”

The words were soft, but they carried weight — the kind of quiet authority that made grown men falter.

Michael froze. “I—I meant no disrespect, sir—”

“Don’t ever make that mistake again.” Damian’s gaze didn’t waver.

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry,” Michael stammered, bowing slightly as he stepped back, his face pale and glistening.

Damian ignored him completely. His eyes had already returned to Elena. She was standing near one of the larger canvases now, the crowd thinning between them. He drained the last of his champagne, set the glass down in Michael’s trembling hands, and started walking.

He didn’t care about the whispers that followed him, the heads that turned, the subordinates who pretended not to notice the shift in his stride. In that moment, nothing mattered but her. The woman who had looked at him like she saw something she wasn’t supposed to.

He found her standing before a haunting painting of a mother holding a laughing child. The woman’s eyes in the painting were full of sorrow, and blood and tears mingled as she smiled through her pain. It was a powerful piece, but Damian barely noticed it. His attention was entirely on the living woman before him.

He stopped just behind her, close enough to catch the faint scent of her perfume — soft, with a hint of vanilla and something floral he couldn’t name.

“Beautiful painting, isn’t it?” His voice broke the silence, low and deep.

Elena gasped, spinning around. Her eyes widened when she saw him — the same man from across the room. For a moment, she looked like a startled doe, poised to run but too stunned to move.

“Yes… Yes, it is,” she managed to say, her voice breathless.

Damian watched her fidget, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, her gaze darting to the walls, the people, the floor — anywhere but at him. Her reaction amused him, her nervousness tugging something primal inside him.

“Are you afraid of me, love?” he asked softly, his tone touched with teasing warmth.

Elena’s stomach fluttered at the sound of that word — love. Her lips parted before she caught herself. She shook her head, the faintest of smiles curving her lips. “No… I don’t think I am.”

“Good.” Damian’s grin deepened, revealing a single dimple on his cheek. “You shouldn’t be.”

He extended his hand to her. “I’m Damian.”

Elena hesitated, her eyes falling to his outstretched hand as if it were some dangerous thing. But curiosity — or something stronger — made her reach out. Her fingers slipped into his, and she inhaled sharply at the warmth of his skin.

“I’m Elena,” she whispered, her voice so soft he almost missed it.

Her name sounded like silk. Damian turned her hand gently in his, and without breaking eye contact, raised it to his lips. His kiss was feather-light but searing all the same, his breath brushing against her skin. He felt her tremble slightly and smiled against her knuckles.

Her eyes darkened, her lips parting as her body betrayed her — desire flickering just beneath the surface. The sound she made when she exhaled was small but full of longing. Damian’s control wavered for just a second, heat flaring low in his gut.

“Elena,” he murmured, still holding her hand. “That’s a beautiful name. Just like its owner.”

Her cheeks flushed a deep pink, and she looked away. “Thank you,” she whispered. “It was my mother’s.”

“Was?” Damian asked, his voice softening.

Elena’s smile faltered. “She’s gone.”

He cursed under his breath, his earlier playfulness fading. “I’m sorry.”

Elena shook her head quickly, forcing a smile through the sadness that flickered in her eyes. “It’s okay. You didn’t know.”

He still hadn’t let go of her hand, and she didn’t want him to. The warmth of his palm against hers felt grounding, like an anchor in a world that had always felt too uncertain. She looked up at him, drawn once more into his gaze — that steady, unreadable gaze that made her heart race.

Every instinct inside her screamed that he was dangerous. The kind of man who could unravel her life without even trying. He was power wrapped in calm, confidence wrapped in charm, and she knew she should walk away before she drowned in whatever this was.

But she didn’t. She couldn’t.

Her pulse quickened, her thoughts tangled between warning and want. She wondered what it would feel like to kiss him, to feel that voice against her skin.

And Damian, watching her, could see every flicker of emotion cross her face. The way she warred with herself. The way she tried and failed to hide her curiosity.

He shouldn’t have wanted her. Not with the life he led, not with the shadows that followed him everywhere he went. She was light, he was chaos. But the longer he held her hand, the harder it became to care.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked suddenly, her voice breaking through his thoughts.

Damian’s lips curved. “I’m not entirely sure you want to know.”

Something shifted in her eyes then. A flicker of caution, a reminder that she didn’t know who he was or what kind of man he might be. She pulled her hand away quickly, her warmth leaving his skin in an instant.

“I have to go,” she said, the words tumbling out as she took a step back.

“Elena—”

But she was already gone. One moment she was standing before him, the next she had disappeared into the sea of people, swallowed by the crowd and the glow of the gallery lights.

Damian stood there, his jaw tight, his heart pounding harder than he wanted to admit. For a man who had spent his entire life in control of his emotions, of others, of everything — this sudden loss of composure infuriated him.

He looked at the space where she had been standing, at the faint memory of her voice, her scent, the warmth of her hand. And for the first time in a long time, Damian found himself wondering what it would feel like to be undone by someone he barely knew.