Chapter Two – The Warning
1265 Words
(Damian’s POV)
Blood has a way of bringing old ghosts back to life.
I pressed a towel against my arm, cursing under my breath as I climbed onto the narrow balcony of Isabella Martinez’s apartment. It wasn’t the first time I’d been shot at, but it was the first time I regretted dragging someone else into the crossfire.
Through the half-open curtains, I could see her — frightened, confused, clutching that damned envelope she should’ve never touched.
“Didn’t I tell you to go home, Miss Martinez?” My voice came out low, more growl than warning.
She turned sharply, eyes wide. The soft light caught her face — all determination and defiance despite the fear.
“What happened to you?” she asked, stepping closer.
I held up a hand. “Don’t come near me. There might be blood on me you can’t wash off.”
Her brow furrowed. “You’re hurt—”
“I’ve had worse.” I scanned the street below — two black sedans parked under the lamppost. Men waiting inside. Viktor’s men. Damn it.
I’d told her to stay out of this. But curiosity was a poison she couldn’t resist.
I turned back to her. “Where’s the envelope?”
Her lips parted, just slightly. “You knew about it.”
“I saw someone plant it on you at the conference. I tried to intercept him.”
“You failed.”
That made me look at her — really look. She wasn’t trembling now. She was standing tall, even as the wind from the open balcony sent her hair across her face. Brave, reckless woman.
“You read it?” I asked.
“Enough to know your family’s name is written next to a man called Viktor Dragic. Enough to wonder who the hell you really are.”
I exhaled slowly. “I’m the last person you should be asking that question.”
Her jaw set. “I’m a journalist. Questions are my job.”
“You keep digging, and you’ll end up a headline.”
She folded her arms, the faintest spark of anger in her eyes. “You’re not scaring me, Mr. Moretti.”
“I’m not trying to.” I stepped closer, close enough to feel the tension in the air between us. “I’m trying to save you.”
Outside, an engine started. Tires screeched against the wet pavement.
“Get down!” I hissed, pushing her to the floor just as the window shattered. A bullet tore through the curtain and embedded itself in the opposite wall.
She gasped, wide-eyed. I reached inside my jacket and drew my gun — compact, silenced, familiar. “Stay behind me.”
I moved to the edge of the balcony, took aim, and fired twice. One window shattered below. A scream followed, then silence.
When I turned back, Isabella was shaking — not from fear, but adrenaline. “Who are they?” she asked quietly.
“Viktor Dragic’s men,” I said. “He’s cleaning up loose ends.”
“Why me?”
“Because you saw something you weren’t supposed to.”
She swallowed hard. “And you? Why are they after you?”
“Because I’m supposed to be dead.”
That shut her up for a moment. The silence stretched between us — only the sound of the wind and the distant sirens below.
“Pack your things,” I said finally. “We have to move.”
Her eyes widened. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
I turned, giving her the coldest look I could muster. “Then you’ll die here.”
She hesitated, then grabbed her bag, her hands trembling slightly. “Where are we going?”
“Somewhere safe.”
“Do you even know what that means?”
I looked her in the eye. “No one ever taught me.”
We slipped out through the back stairwell. I kept my gun hidden but ready, every sense tuned for movement. The city was quieter now — too quiet.
She followed close, her breathing quick. Every few steps, she glanced at me like she was trying to figure me out.
“You’re not just a businessman,” she said softly.
“No.”
“Then who are you, Damian?”
“I was born into a world that eats its own,” I said. “The Moretti family — my father’s empire — deals in power, not conscience. I walked away years ago.”
“Yet the blood still follows you.”
“Always.”
We reached a dark alley. My contact’s car waited there — a black Alfa Romeo, engine purring. I opened the door for her.
She hesitated. “Why are you helping me?”
For a moment, I almost told her the truth — that she reminded me of the one person I couldn’t save. But the truth was dangerous.
“Because you didn’t run when you should have,” I said instead.
The car wove through the city, headlights slicing through the rain. She was silent for most of the drive, staring out at the blurred lights.
Finally, she spoke. “You said Viktor Dragic is after you. Why?”
“He and my father built empires together. Drugs, weapons, laundering. When my brother and I refused to take over the family business, Viktor turned on us. My father… allowed it.”
Her voice softened. “He tried to kill you?”
“I tried to kill him first.”
The silence after that was heavier than the rain.
When we reached the outskirts of the city, I parked beside an abandoned warehouse near the port. It wasn’t much, but it was off-grid.
“Get some rest,” I told her. “You’ll be safe here for a few hours.”
She stepped out, hugging herself against the cold. “And what about you?”
“I have to make a call.”
She nodded, but I could see the conflict in her eyes — fear, curiosity… and something else.
When I turned away, she said softly, “You saved my life tonight.”
I stopped. “Don’t thank me yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because next time, I might not be able to.”
Later, as she slept fitfully on the old couch, I stood outside under the rain, phone pressed to my ear.
“Luca,” I muttered. “It’s me.”
A pause. Then a low chuckle. “I thought you were dead, brother.”
“Almost.”
“What do you want?”
“I need information. Viktor’s back in Barcelona. And he knows about the files.”
Another pause. Then Luca said, “Then it’s already too late. You’ve got a journalist with you, don’t you?”
My grip on the phone tightened. “How do you—”
“You were always predictable, Damian. Just like Father said. You find something pure, and you destroy it trying to protect it.”
“Stay away from her.”
“Can’t,” he said lightly. “Viktor wants her alive. Father wants her quiet. And I—” His tone darkened. “—I want to see which of them gets to you first.”
The line went dead.
I stared at the phone, the rain sliding down my face, mixing with the blood that still hadn’t stopped.
Somewhere behind me, Isabella stirred in her sleep — unaware that her life had just become the bait in a war that began long before she was born.
To be continued…
- Writer
