Chapter 2
703 Words
Damiano
She looked at him like he was the devil.
Maybe he was.
Damiano leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching her struggle with the chains like they were the only thing holding her back. The girl had fire in her veins. Most women in her position would be begging, crying, screaming.
Not her.
She glared.
“You think I’m scared of you?” she said, voice steady even though her wrists trembled slightly.
He raised a brow. Brave. Stupid. Beautiful.
“I don’t expect you to be,” he said calmly. “But you should be.”
The defiance in her face flickered for just a second. Not enough for someone untrained to catch—but he saw it. Damiano saw everything.
It was part of the job. Part of the blood-soaked throne he sat on.
She didn’t know who he was—not really. She just knew what the whispers said. The rumors. The name passed between cops and criminals like a ghost story:
Damiano Moretti.
The man who left no loose ends.
Except her.
He should’ve killed her the moment he found out she was on the witness list. One bullet. Clean. Silent.
But when he saw her photo—something twisted in him. And when he saw her in person...
He couldn’t do it.
He told himself it was strategy. Keep her hidden. Keep her alive until the heat died down.
But deep down, he knew that was bullshit.
This wasn’t about safety.
This was about her.
Elena Rivera. Twenty-four. Too smart for her own good. Soft-looking on the outside, but sharp as glass on the inside. She didn’t know it yet, but she’d walked into the devil’s den—and he wasn’t planning to let her walk out.
He pushed off the wall and walked toward her.
She flinched—but barely.
“Hungry?” he asked.
She stared at him like he’d lost his mind.
“I’m not eating with my kidnapper.”
He smirked. “Suit yourself. But I have a chef upstairs, and you haven’t eaten in almost a day.”
Her stomach growled—loudly.
Damiano didn’t say a word. He just smiled wider and walked toward the heavy door. But before he left, he paused.
“I’ll give you ten minutes to change your mind.”
Then he was gone, locking the door behind him.
---
Elena sat there, heart pounding, furious at herself.
She was hungry. But she didn’t want to give that bastard the satisfaction.
Still, her head throbbed. Her mouth was dry. Her body ached from the cold stone floor.
She stared at the door for two, three minutes—then stood up.
The chains clanked, giving her just enough room to reach the tiny bathroom attached to the cell. She splashed cold water on her face and stared at the girl in the mirror.
She didn’t recognize her.
Messy hair. Bruised wrists. Wide eyes that had seen too much in too little time.
But beneath all that—there was a spark. A quiet promise.
You’re not staying here forever.
---
When Damiano returned, she was sitting upright, arms crossed.
“I’ll eat,” she muttered. “But I’m not talking to you.”
He grinned, motioned for one of his men, and in came a tray: grilled chicken, roasted potatoes, vegetables, and a warm piece of crusty bread. Real food. The kind you didn’t get in prison cells.
She took the tray slowly.
“Poisoned?” she asked.
Damiano chuckled. “Only if you’re allergic to rosemary.”
She hated how good it smelled.
They sat in silence as she ate. He didn’t push, didn’t pry. Just watched. Observed.
Until she finally broke the silence.
“Why am I really here?”
He leaned back in his chair, eyes meeting hers with that cold, unreadable gaze.
“You’re here,” he said slowly, “because you saw too much. And now, your life is mine to protect… or destroy.”
She swallowed hard.
There was no bargaining with a man like him.
But maybe—just maybe—there was understanding. Leverage.
Or something darker.
Something more dangerous than hate.
Something that felt like the start of obsession.
- Writer
