The storm hadn't followed them, but it lingered inside the car heavy, silent, suffocating.
By the time Luca pulled through the wrought-iron gates of the Moretti estate, the sky had broken into a dull gray dawn.
Rainwater dripped from Damian's sleeves as he stepped out, his jaw still locked, his silence sharper than any blade.
Isabella followed slowly, her shoes sinking into the wet gravel, her mind replaying the docks, the gunfire, the blood, the fire.
Her heart still beat too fast. She hadn't realized she was still clutching Damian's coat until he turned, his eyes dark beneath the low light.
"Inside," he ordered softly.
She wanted to argue, to demand answers, to scream but something in his expression stopped her. Not anger.
Something else. Something that looked dangerously close to exhaustion.
Inside, the mansion was quiet, too quiet. The kind of silence that hummed with things unsaid.
Luca peeled away toward the east wing to deal with the guards, leaving the two of them alone.
Damian walked straight to the study, the wet trail of his steps glistening across the marble.
Isabella followed, hesitating only once at the threshold.
The study smelled of whiskey and rain. Papers littered the desk.
A half-empty glass sat beside a pistol. Damian braced his hands on the table, head bowed, water dripping from his hair.
"Damian…" her voice cracked.
"Don't," he cut in, low, sharp. "Don't say my name right now, Bella."
She froze. "You can't keep talking to me like I'm one of your men."
He looked up then and the fury in his eyes made her breath catch. "You think I want to talk to you like this?" he snapped.
"I just pulled you out of a goddamn war zone because your father.."
He stopped, jaw tightening. His fist came down on the table, rattling the glass.
Her pulse jumped. "Because my father what?"
The silence stretched. The fire crackled. Damian's eyes burned into hers as if deciding whether to tell her the truth or protect her from it.
Finally, he turned away, his voice low and frayed. "Because he's playing a game I'm tired of cleaning up."
Isabella stepped closer, her trembling softening into something steadier. "You're not telling me everything."
He didn't answer. His shoulders rose and fell once, then again. "You don't want to know."
"Yes, I do."
He laughed , not with humor, but with disbelief. "You think you're ready for that, princess? You couldn't even look at a corpse without falling apart."
Her spine straightened. "I'm still here, aren't I?"
That made him look at her really look. Her soaked hair clung to her skin, her eyes glassy but unbroken.
The girl who had once trembled in his presence now stood her ground, even with the storm in his eyes aimed at her.
Something flickered behind his expression pride, anger, desire, guilt all tangled together.
He moved closer. One step. Then another. Until she had to tilt her head up to meet his gaze.
"Do you have any idea," he murmured, voice rough and dangerous, "what it does to me when you look at me like that?"
Her breath caught. "Like what?"
"Like you don't know if you hate me or want me."
The words struck her like a current. Her chest rose and fell, the air between them thick and suffocating.
He raised a hand, brushing a strand of damp hair from her cheek. His fingers lingered there, his thumb tracing her jaw, slow and possessive.
"Damian…" she whispered, but the sound came out softer than she meant it to.
His hand dropped suddenly, his control snapping back like a whip. He turned away, breathing hard.
"Go upstairs. Get some rest. I'll send Maria to check on you."
She hesitated. "And what about you?"
He gave a cold, humorless smile. "Wolves don't sleep."
Her throat tightened. "You're not a wolf, Damian."
He glanced back, his gaze shadowed. "No, Bella. I'm worse."
Before she could speak, he brushed past her and left the study, his footsteps fading down the hall.
She stood there, the storm still echoing in her chest. Every wall of the mansion seemed to breathe with secrets his, hers, and the ones buried between their fathers.
Outside, dawn broke over the city, pale and uncertain.
Inside, Isabella realized that the true storm wasn't over. It had only just begun.
The house didn't sleep that night.
Not really.
Isabella tried. She'd changed out of her wet clothes, curled beneath the heavy duvet, and listened to the endless whisper of rain against the windows.
But every time she closed her eyes, she saw the docks, Damian dragging her behind him, the flash of gunfire, the look in his eyes when he said her father's name.
Because your father…
The sentence haunted her.
He hadn't finished it. He'd stopped himself.
And that, more than anything, terrified her.
Downstairs, faint footsteps echoed. Heavy. Angry.
Damian.
She slipped out of bed, silent as a ghost. The corridors were dim, the air cool and heavy with the scent of rain-soaked stone.
She padded barefoot down the stairs, following the low voices until she reached the study door half open, light spilling into the hall.
Damian's voice was sharp, cold, and controlled. The kind of tone that made grown men nervous.
"I told you to keep him off the docks, Luca. Off."
Luca exhaled, the sound weary. "You think I didn't try? Antonio doesn't listen anymore. He's desperate."
The name froze her heart. Antonio.
Her father.
She pressed closer to the door, her breath shallow.
Damian's hand hit the desk with a crack. "Desperate men get people killed. He should've come to me first."
"He did," Luca said quietly. "You weren't there."
For a moment, silence. Then Damian cursed under his breath and poured himself another glass of whiskey.
"So what does he want now?" he muttered.
Luca hesitated. "He wants the same thing he's always wanted.
To get out clean. But someone's taking the leash. Word is, the Russians want the shipment that burned tonight. And they think you have it."
Damian's low laugh was bitter. "Of course they do. Let me guess they'll come for him next, to make an example?"
Luca didn't answer.
That told Isabella everything she needed to know.
Her hands trembled as she clutched the doorframe.
Her father, the man who raised her on sweet lies and careful smiles, was tangled in something darker than she'd ever imagined.
And Damian… Damian was in the middle of it.
"Let them come," Damian said finally, voice quiet and lethal. "If they touch Antonio, they touch her."
Luca sighed. "And that's what I'm worried about, boss. You're getting too close."
A long silence followed. Isabella could almost feel Damian's stillness through the door.
"I know," he said at last.
The sound of those two words quiet, resigned, heavy made her heart ache in ways she didn't understand.
She backed away before either of them could see her.
Her breath hitched as she climbed the stairs again, her mind spinning with the half-truths and the danger pressing closer with every passing hour.
When she finally reached her room, she stood at the window, staring into the gray dawn.
Somewhere beyond those iron gates, someone was watching and waiting for her.
And for the first time, Isabella wasn't sure who the real enemy was anymore.
Her father?.
Damian?.
Or herself… for falling for the one man she was never meant to trust.