Bloody Intentions { BL SLOWBURN }

Five : Too Pretty

The dimly lit bar had the sort of haze that came from too many cigarettes and not enough ventilation. Luka sat at a table near the back, his men scattered around him, each nursing a drink in a half-hearted attempt to relax. The conversation was tense, dominated by grumbling about the upcoming wedding between Izzy and Matteo.

“This isn’t going to work,” Tony muttered, glaring into his whiskey. “Novak scum, really? We’re supposed to trust them now?”

The others around the table muttered in agreement, their disdain for the Novaks palpable in every word, every look. Luka leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, letting their complaints swirl around him like cigarette smoke. He couldn’t blame them. Hell, he agreed with them more than he cared to admit but tonight, he didn’t want to think too deeply about any of that.

“How are we supposed to trust a family that spent years trying to wipe us off the map?” Another man spat from across the table.

“They think a wedding’s going to change that?”

“I'll never work with a Novak.”

“We don’t trust them.” Some else agreed, his voice rising. “Union or not, they’re Novak scum!”

Suddenly, the door to the bar swung open with a force that turned heads. Luka’s eyes snapped up, his instincts sharpening immediately as a group of men sauntered in, their movements too cocky, too bold. They moved with arrogant ease, making their way toward the bar like they belonged there, like they weren’t stepping into De Luca territory. Their leader was a stocky man with a sneer on his face and as his eyes locked onto Luka’s men, his smirk widened.

“Nice place.” One of the Novak's said loudly, tone mocking. “Guess we might as well make this our local.”

The tension in the room rose sharply, a palpable, dangerous shift in the atmosphere. Luka could feel his men bristle beside him, their hands itching toward weapons they weren’t supposed to be pulling out in a public place like this. But the rules of the underworld meant little when disrespect was on the line.

“Union or no union, you don’t belong here.” Tony snapped, rising to his feet. “This is De Luca territory. You don’t set foot here unless we say so.”

The Novak men laughed. “What’s the matter? We thought we were family now.”

“Family?” One of Luka’s men spat on the floor, his voice filled with venom. “We don’t accept the likes of you. Now leave before we make you.”

“Then I guess you’ll just have to make us, ‘cause we aren’t going anywhere.”

In an instant, fists flew, tables crashed and the bar erupted into chaos as the De Luca men clashed with the Novak's, bodies slamming into walls, chairs overturning and glasses shattering across the floor. Luka sat back in his chair, sipping at his drink as the chaos erupted around him. He never found much enjoyment in this kind of senseless violence. His men thrived on it, almost lived for moments like this, to blow off steam, to assert dominance, to feed that gnawing need for conflict that came with being a De Luca.

But Luka? He didn’t care, especially not now, after his conversation with Izzy.

His mind was still swirling with the implications of the wedding, the weight of her words pressing down on him, leaving him feeling numb. All he wanted was to finish his drink in peace and leave the madness behind. But peace wasn’t something Luka was afforded often. Not in this life. He set his drink down, feeling the weight of his weariness settle deeper into his bones. Let them fight. Let them throw their punches and beat their chests. He had no intention of getting involved. At least, that was the plan.

The peace he'd been clinging to shattered in an instant when a body came flying into his table, the weight of the man causing the whole thing to top over. His drink, still half-full, tumbled off the edge, the glass hitting the ground with a sharp crack as it shattered into pieces. Luka stared down at the spilled liquid for a moment, feeling the flicker of annoyance creep up his spine. Really? Only then did he slowly stand, his expression finally shifting from indifference to irritation. He took his time, brushing off his shirt as the man who’d crashed into his table struggled to get up, muttering angrily as he did so.

Grabbing him by the back of his shirt, Luka drew his arm back, fist clenched, but before he could strike the doors of the bar swung open once again. He froze, his punch hovering in mid-air as he recognised the newcomer.

Damon Salvatore.

The room seemed to still as Damon stepped inside, his presence suffocating. Luka’s hand lowered, the punch forgotten as his attention focused entirely on the towering figure as Damon moved with that eerie calm, his gaze sweeping over the chaos like it was nothing but a minor inconvenience. He scanned the room before he landed on Luka and paused, lingered. For the first time that night, Luka felt a flicker of something beyond annoyance as he met those dark eyes.

“Salvatore.” He acknowleged, voice low but carrying through the now quiet bar. “What are you doing here?”

Demon tilted his head slightly. "And who are you supposed to be?"

The question stung. Luka’s jaw clenched, the muscles tightening as he felt the blood rush to his ears. Who was he supposed to be? Damon didn’t even know who he was? Impossible...

“You need to leave.”

Damon blinked slowly, glancing around the bar as though taking in the surroundings for the first time. “No. I think I’ll stay.”

“This bar is no place for a Novak.”

“I’m a Salvatore, not a Novak.” He took a step closer and Luka held his ground, every muscle in his body coiled tight as Damon ran his eyes over him. “Besides, who dares to make me leave?”

Luka could feel the whispers ripple through the room, the hushed excitement of both the De Luca and Novak men.

He smirked coldly, taking a step forward until he was mere inches from Damon’s face. “I do.”

The room seemed to hold its breath. Around them, the whispers grew louder as Damon’s eyes flicked across Luka’s face. He wasn’t just watching, he was studying him, his gaze lingering in a way that felt more pointed than casual. They were close now—closer than they should’ve been. Luka could feel the heat radiating from Damon’s body, his presence as overwhelming as it was infuriating. Damon’s eyes bore into him, dark and cold but with an intensity that Luka couldn’t shake.

“You’re too pretty to intimidate anyone.” Damon murmured lowly, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife.

The words hit like a slap. Luka’s men gasped audibly, their shock palpable. Even the Novak’s seemed stunned at Damon’s audacity because if there was one rumour about Luka that was true, it was that mentioning his appearance—his pretty face—was a death wish. The cold smirk vanished, replaced by a flash of fury that lit his eyes. His pulse thrummed in his ears, the insult digging deeper than he cared to admit. For a moment, it felt like time had slowed. The world around them—the whispers, the fight, the bar—faded into the background and it was just the two of them, standing too close, their gazes locked, sharp and electric, yet neither made a move to back away.

With a small huff as his only warning, Luka’s fist flew toward Damon’s face, fuelled by all the frustration and fire that had been building since the moment he opened his mouth. It connected with a resounding crack, the impact sending a jolt through the room as Damon’s head snapped slightly to the side. Luka stepped back, hand still clenched tight but instead of the satisfaction he’d expected, something colder settled in his chest as Damon slowly turned his head back to face him.

Those dark eyes blazed—not with anger, but with something darker, something more dangerous and not for the first time, Luka felt a flicker of unease ripple through him.