Wrecked by my enemy

Chapter 2: The Predator’s Night Off

The Maybach cut through the downtown rain like it had a personal grudge against the city.

“Tell me again,” Damien said, voice flat and low. “How close did Victor actually get?”

Rafe didn’t look up from his phone, thumb flicking across the screen too fast, like the speed could change the numbers. “Close enough that if the SEC filing had landed yesterday instead of tomorrow, I’d be sitting here googling which countries still hate America enough to skip the extradition paperwork.”

Damien pressed two fingers hard into the hinge of his jaw. The ache there had been building for days, a dull throb that no amount of coffee or rage could kill. Outside the tinted window, the city bled past in wet streaks of red taillights and white headlights. Eleven straight days of silent war calls at 3 a.m. to people who owed him favors they’d rather forget, buried trails, threats that never made it onto any official record. And still it had come down to f*****g barely.

Victor Hawthorne.

The name landed on the back of the car like bad smoke that refused to clear. Four years of that old-money bastard circling Blackwood Innovations, trying to swallow it whole because Damien didn’t have the right last name, the right schools, or the right blood running through his veins. Ports, energy grids, three senators in his pocket, and probably half the dreams of every man in his tax bracket. Victor looked at what Damien had clawed out of nothing and decided it belonged to someone with better breeding.

The takeover had failed. That was the official story. Damien had spent those eleven days killing it quietly, through channels that would never show up in any filing. By the time Victor’s legal team moved, it was already over. The press called it a routine regulatory outcome. Clean and boring.

But it barely tasted like s**t in his mouth.

“You need tonight,” Rafe said quietly, eyes still on the screen.

“I don’t need shit.”

“You’ve slept four hours total in three days. You told our head of legal to find a new profession because she used the word ‘perhaps’ in a federal brief.”

Damien’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. “It was a f*****g weak word for a weak moment.”

Rafe finally looked up. Eleven years of riding shotgun through every near disaster, the company had survived. From the dorm room server rack days to the first real money, to nights when the whole thing had nearly collapsed under its own weight. Rafe was the only person on earth Damien let see more than sixty percent of the truth. The rest he kept locked down tight.

Damien stared at his own reflection in the dark glass. He is thirty-two years old. Still wearing the same charcoal suit from the boardroom marathon, collar open, tie long gone somewhere in the back seat. The public version of Damien Blackwood was charming, openly bisexual, photographed at gallery openings with a rotating cast of beautiful people and known by exactly nobody who mattered. The real version hadn’t slept properly since he was seventeen and watched his father’s name get scrubbed from a patent filing like it had never existed.

Control had teeth. When the bite got too deep, there was only one place he could drop the weight for a few hours without it following him back into the office the next morning.

The Veil.

He owned twenty-two percent of The Veil through three layers of shell companies, so clean even he sometimes forgot the paper trail leading back to him. He’d bought in at age twenty-six because he already understood something most people never learned. The most valuable intelligence in any industry wasn’t in boardrooms or filings. It was what people did when they believed the lights were off and nobody was watching.

Tonight wasn’t about gathering dirt or leverage.

Tonight was about the part of him that was sick of deciding every single outcome in every single room. The part that needed to hand the reins to someone else and feel what it was like when the pressure wasn’t his to carry. Even if it was only for a few hours.

He took his phone out of his pocket. His thumb hovered over the screen for a second, then moved.

Black mask protocol. Highest anonymity tier. No names, No light, No conversation unless he allowed it.

He typed the request fast, before the part of his brain that calculated risk could talk him out of it.

*Destroy me. No names. No mercy.*

And Sent.

The confirmation came back in forty seconds. Suite Seven in forty minutes.

Rafe gave him that look, the one where opinions were stacked up behind his teeth, but he wasn’t stupid enough to spit them out tonight.

“Say it,” Damien muttered.

“Nothing to say.”

“Rafe.”

Rafe exhaled through his nose, long and slow. “Sleep would fix more than whatever you’re about to walk into. Eight real hours. Maybe ten. But we both know you won’t do that.” A pause. “Just don’t do anything that ends up in a goddamn filing somewhere.”

The car slowed outside the unmarked building. No sign on the door. Just plain black steel, a code pad, and a facial scanner that didn’t ask questions. The kind of place that didn’t exist if you didn’t already belong to it.

Damien stepped out into the cold rain. It hit the back of his neck like a slap, sharp and sudden. His skin felt too tight, blood buzzing under it like live wires that had been left on too long. Out there he was a machine with sharp edges, always three moves ahead, never blinking at first. In there, for a few hours, he could just be meat. Hands. Teeth. A body that didn’t have to carry the weight of every decision.

The door opened before he even reached it.

He went inside to dark marble floors, low amber lighting, staff who moved like ghosts trained never to remember a face. No greetings or small talk. They knew him. They always knew him here.

They led him down the familiar corridor, straight to the black suite. The door sealed behind him with a soft, final click that cut off the outside world completely.

Total darkness.

The air hit him first, thick with the smell of leather, clean linen, and something sharper underneath… faint sweat, ozone, the metallic edge of violence held just barely in check.

Damien stood motionless, letting his eyes give up their useless search for light. His pulse thudded heavily in his throat, in his wrists, lower down where the exhaustion and the wired hunger twisted together. The ache in his jaw had spread to his temples.

He rolled his shoulders once, slowly, feeling the tension crackle across his back.

Fuck it.

The corner of his mouth curled, not quite a smile, more like a crack in the armor.

“Alright,” he said, voice rough and scraped raw from too much silence and too little sleep. “Let’s see how loud you f*****g break.”