Chapter Two - The Devil's Throne
693 Words
Damian Voss didn’t startle at the sound of a gun being c****d. Fear was for lesser men, men who didn’t rule entire cities from the shadows.
But when the scarred fool across the room raised his weapon, Damian’s first thought wasn’t of the threat.
It was of the girl standing behind him.
The little dove with fire in her eyes.
He could still feel her pulse racing under his fingertips, fragile yet defiant. She didn’t belong here—he knew it the moment she walked into Club Verona. Too innocent. Too untainted by blood and sin. And yet, the way she held her chin high told him she wasn’t naïve. She had walked into his world knowing the cost.
Interesting.
The gunman shouted his name again, demanding attention. Damian finally turned his head, meeting the man’s stare with a calm that made most enemies crumble.
“Brave,” Damian drawled, his tone edged with deadly amusement, “to point a gun at me in my own house.”
Whispers rippled through the room. No one dared move. No one dared breathe.
The scarred man sneered. “Your empire is crumbling, Voss. And I’ll be the one to put you in the ground.”
Damian tilted his head, more predator than man. Slowly, deliberately, he pushed Amara behind him, shielding her with the kind of possessiveness that surprised even himself. He never protected strangers. But this woman—he already knew—wasn’t a stranger anymore.
He gave her one last glance, his eyes burning into hers. Stay quiet. Stay still.
Then, with a motion faster than a blink, Damian reached beneath his jacket. Steel flashed in his hand.
The devil had drawn his weapon.
And hell was about to break loose.
The room erupted in chaos.
The scarred man fired first—sharp, deafening cracks that split the air. Screams tore through the club as bodies dove for cover, glasses shattered, and tables overturned.
But Damian didn’t flinch.
His movements were swift, precise, ruthless. The king of the underworld didn’t waste bullets—each one he fired was deliberate, a message carved in smoke and blood. Two of the gunman’s men fell before Amara could even draw a full breath.
She stood frozen, pressed against the wall where Damian had shoved her, her hands trembling. Her mind screamed to run, but her eyes… her eyes stayed locked on him.
There was no fear in him. No hesitation. Only control.
Damian moved like the violence belonged to him—like death itself bowed at his feet. And yet, in the midst of the storm, he kept glancing back at her. Just for a second, just long enough to make sure she was still standing.
The scarred man cursed, ducking behind the bar as Damian closed in. “You’ll burn for this, Voss!”
Damian’s smirk was cold, lethal. “I already have.”
He fired once more. The man dropped.
Silence reclaimed the room, broken only by the hiss of spilled liquor and the ragged breathing of those who had survived.
Damian lowered his gun, the weight of command never leaving his shoulders. Around him, men scrambled to obey—cleaning blood, dragging bodies, restoring order. Club Verona belonged to him again.
Then his gaze returned to her.
Amara’s chest heaved, her entire body trembling. She had just witnessed murder, violence so raw and unflinching it should have sent her running into the night. But when Damian walked toward her, slow and certain, she didn’t move.
He stopped inches away, his hand lifting—not to harm, but to brush a stray lock of hair from her face.
“You see now, little dove?” His voice was low, dangerous, intoxicating. “This is my world. Once you step inside…” His thumb grazed her cheek, leaving fire in its wake. “…there’s no way out.”
Amara’s lips parted, her heart pounding. She should have screamed. She should have fled.
Instead, she whispered, “Then why do I feel like I was meant to be here?”
Damian’s smile was wicked, triumphant, hungry.
“Because you were
⚡ End of Chapter Two ⚡
- Writer
