The ride back to the mansion was silent, but silence with Damiano was never empty. It was heavy, oppressive, filled with things he didn’t need to say. Elena sat pressed against the car door, her body trembling, her mind replaying the image of the man collapsing in a pool of blood. The sound of the gunshot reverberated in her skull, each echo a blade cutting deeper into her sanity.
Damiano lounged in his seat beside her, unbothered, his hand resting lazily against his thigh, his gaze fixed out the window. He hadn’t even blinked after pulling the trigger. And that, Elena realized with a sick twist of fear, was what made him so terrifying—killing wasn’t an act of passion for him. It was routine.
When the car pulled into the gates, Elena almost bolted, but Damiano’s hand closed around her wr
