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The smell of blood hung heavy in the air.
Gunfire had stopped. Screams were gone. The Velenzo men moved through the ruined estate like shadows, executing the last of the rival family with clinical precision. Damian stood in the center of the grand hall, his black gloves soaked in crimson, eyes cold and unbothered.
He came for war—and he delivered hell.
The family that dared betray the Velenzos had been erased. Fathers, sons, wives…all of them. This house, once the throne of cowards, now belonged to silence.
"All cleared, boss," said Silas, his second-in-command.
Damian said nothing. His sharp eyes scanned the ruined hall, then turned toward the long corridor leading to the servants' quarters. Something pulled him—an instinct honed from years of surviving betrayal. He walked, slow and controlled, stepping over lifeless bodies, ignoring the flicker of movement his men left unchecked.
He stopped at the end of the corridor.
There, huddled in the corner of a small linen closet, was a girl. A child. No older than fifteen. Her maid uniform was ripped, her knees scraped, and blood—not hers—streaked her cheek. Her arms were wrapped tightly around herself, but she didn't shake. She didn't cry.
She looked up at him.
And stared.
Damian had seen fear in countless eyes. He had seen men beg, scream, lose their minds. But this girl… she didn't scream.
She just looked at him.
Her eyes—large, defiant, and burning with something that didn't belong in a child—met his with eerie calm. She wasn't broken. Not yet. Not even surrounded by blood and corpses.
"What's your name?" he asked, voice like gravel.
She blinked once. "Aria."
Her voice was quiet—but steady. Almost… challenging.
Damian's jaw tensed. "Family?"
She shook her head. "I was their maid. No family."
He believed her. Something about her told him she wasn't lying.
"You saw everything," he said.
"Yes."
"You should be dead."
"I know."
He stepped forward, expecting her to flinch. She didn't. She just tilted her head, studying him the way someone might study a dangerous animal behind glass.
"I don't like killing girls," Damian muttered, crouching to her level, "but I don't leave loose ends."
Aria's lips twitched. "Then maybe I'm not loose."
That made him pause.
She was barely fifteen, but there was something… sharp in her. Something untouched by fear. She wasn't like the rest.
Damian stood. "Get up."
She hesitated—then obeyed. Her legs wobbled as she rose, but she didn't reach for help.
"From this day forward," he said, his voice low, final, "you belong to me."
She blinked. "As what? A servant?"
"No. No one will command you. But no one will touch you, either. You breathe because I allow it. Never forget that."
She tilted her head again. "So I'm your pet?"
A flash of amusement danced in his cold eyes. "No, little fox. You're a debt I haven't decided how to collect yet."
Then he turned, walking into the bloodstained hall. Without a word, she followed.
And behind them, the mansion that raised her burned to ash.
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