"I wasn't born a monster. But the moment he put a bullet in my father, something inside me broke. And something else—something worse—woke up."
They called it a power shift.
I called it what it was:
A slaughter.
The De Lione family didn't just take territory. They took blood. Took loyalty. Took the only man I'd ever trusted and left him in a pool of it.
I was nineteen when Damien De Lione pulled the trigger and watched my world burn.
He spared me.
Not out of mercy.
Out of cruelty.
"You're not ready," he said, with a smirk that still haunts me.
"Let's see what you grow into."
Well, darling…
I hope you're watching now.
Because I've grown claws.
And tonight, they're painted red.
The rooftop of La Sangre is wind-slick and silent, floating above the city like a throne carved from shadows. Barcelona pulses below us — sinful, corrupt, and completely unaware that two monsters are about to decide its future over champagne and threats.
I sit at the head of the table. Black leather gloves. Blood-red dress.
And a look that dares any man stupid enough to try me.
He's late.
Of course he is.
Damien De Lione has always liked control — and I've always liked taking it from him.
The elevator dings.
I don't turn. I wait. Let him come to me.
Like the devil he is.
And he does.
Six-foot-something of tailored violence, walking like the building belongs to him. Damien looks like temptation dipped in blood — dark suit, black shirt, no tie, and those cold grey eyes that used to pin me to marble floors in nightmares I didn't ask for.
He stops at the edge of the table.
"Still playing queen?" he murmurs, voice like silk soaked in smoke. "Cute."
"Still pretending you didn't choke on your father's legacy?" I smile. "Even cuter."
We don't shake hands. We don't smile.
This isn't a reunion. It's a reckoning.
"You're bold, Heaven," he says slowly, circling the table like a panther. "Wearing that color tonight."
"It's not red," I reply, lifting my glass. "It's war."
We talk.
About ports. Profits. Dead men who never mattered.
But it's not what we say — it's what we don't.
His eyes stay on my mouth too long.
My fingers trace the rim of my glass just to watch his jaw tighten.
And every sentence feels like foreplay wrapped in poison.
He thinks this is a negotiation.
But I didn't come here to make peace.
I came to make him bleed.
"One rule," I say, standing slowly.
"No lies. you betray me Damien, I'll burn your fucking empire to the ground and ..."
walking closer to him I say
"I'll kill you and bury you next to your father with a smile" I smile
He rises too. Close. Too close.
His voice drops, rough and velvet-dark.
"I don't lie to women I want to keep and I don't share what's mine".
I laugh — quiet, sharp.
"You don't get to keep me, Damien."
His hand brushes my wrist. Just a graze. Just enough to make me inhale.
"We'll see."
I stare blankly. "Then we have a problem".
"No" he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. "We have a beginning".
I leave without looking back.
But I know this:
He's watching.
He always does.
Because Damien didn't spare me out of weakness.
He spared me because he wanted to see if I'd survive.
And now that I have…
He wants to ruin me all over again.
//Daimen's POV//
"She thinks I spared her.
She doesn't realize... I claimed her."
Four years.
Four fucking years, and she walks in like she never bled.
Like her father's corpse didn't stain my shoes.
Like I didn't let her live with my finger on the trigger and my name already written in her nightmares.
Heaven Moretti.
All grown up and dressed in blood.
They told me she was dangerous now.
They said she'd built something powerful in my absence.
They were wrong.
She didn't build a kingdom.
She built bait.
And tonight, I walked straight into it.
Her words didn't hurt.
They never do.
Pain doesn't register in me the way it does in others.
I was raised to carve it out, stitch steel into my veins, and wrap silence around every emotion that made me human.
But her voice?
It cuts differently.
Every threat from those perfect lips sounded like a promise I'd die to make her break.
"You don't get to keep me, Damien."
No, Heaven.
I already do.
After she walked away, I didn't follow.
I watched.
Like I always do.
She disappeared into the night like a ghost I summoned—
and left the taste of war in her wake.
I lit a cigarette I don't remember pulling out.
Watched the ember flare as the cameras tracked her through the building.
God, she moved like sin.
Like the devil taught her to dance just to watch men burn.
And I've never been so fucking ready to be set on fire.
Then the alarms tripped.
Camera feed cut.
And I moved.
By the time I reached the garage, the storm had broken loose—violent, wild, Barcelona's skyline swallowed in thunder.
Her car was parked. Door wide open.
Heaven stood in the center of the concrete, heels cracking against the wet floor as she fought.
Three men. Masks. Guns.
She'd already dropped one.
Blood pooled beneath his skull.
The other two surrounded her. Sloppy. Desperate. Wrong.
I didn't speak.
I watched.
Heaven moved like vengeance. Like the storm itself bowed to her.
One man lunged—he didn't make it. Her blade caught him mid-step, tore across his throat like a whisper.
The last grabbed her arm.
She turned into him. Drove her knee into his gut. Slashed upward, and it was over.
Three men dead.
And she didn't flinch.
She stood over their bodies, dripping rain and defiance, and met my gaze across the garage.
"here to see what would happen to you if you betray me" she said, voice cold as steel.
I stepped closer. "No. But someone's going to need saving from you" I joked
She didn't smile.
Neither did I.
Because at that moment, I realized something I should've known from the start.
She didn't grow into power.
She became it.
------------
Fifteen minutes later, We're in my tower. Windows weeping rain. Barcelona glittering like sin far below.
Thunder pounding the glass.
Tension pounding harder.
She's pacing
Hair dripping. Dress torn. Eyes still blazing with adrenaline
I watch her from the bar, untouched drink in my hand, every nerve strung tight.
she doesn't feel safe.
She doesn't want safety.
She wants control.
And I want her.
Luca steps into the room.
"garage details " he says.
My jaw tightens.
He hesitates.
He swallows. "There was movement outside her building. Unmarked car. No plates. Three men entered the garage after she returned from the meeting."
Silence.
"Armed?"
"Definitely."
"Dead?"
Luca nods. "All three."
I exhale smoke slowly. "She handled herself."
Of course she did.
But I already knew that, I was there.
I asked not because I don't trust her I wanted more details.
Because I was two seconds away from burning the city down if she wasn't.
I sent a message. Not a threat — a promise.
Whoever touched her…
I'll take their hands.
Then I pour myself a glass of something aged and blood-colored and pull open the drawer no one touches.
Inside:
Her pendant.
A silver charm she dropped the night I killed her father.
She never looked back to retrieve it.
She didn't even know it was missing.
But I did.
And I've kept it ever since — not as a trophy.
As a reminder.
Of the girl I didn't destroy.
And the woman I'll never let walk away again.
She thinks this is politics.
A meeting. A test of power. A game of egos.
It's not.
It's a war for control.
And I don't plan on losing.
"We have a beginning," I told her.
What I didn't say?
It ends with her on her knees.
Wearing nothing but the crown she thinks belongs to her.