The road through the mist is like a secret no one should know.
Isabella sat in the passenger seat, clutching the small bag Damian had told her to pack.
The world outside the window blurred endless trees, streaks of gray, and the faint glow of dawn struggling to break through the fog.
The hum of the engine was the only sound between them, heavy and tense.
Damian drove with one hand, the other resting loosely on the wheel, his knuckles pale from pressure.
His jaw was clenched, eyes sharp, flicking to the mirrors every few seconds. He hadn't said a word since they left the cabin.
"Are they following us?" Isabella finally asked, her voice low.
For a moment, he didn't respond.
Then his lips pressed into a grim line.
"They were close enough to make me move. That's all I need to know."
Her fingers tightened around the strap of her bag. "Where are we going?"
"A safehouse," he said. "Remote, Secure. No one outside my inner circle knows about it."
"And you trust your inner circle?"
That made him glance at her just a flicker of his gray eyes meeting hers before turning back to the road.
"Trust is a luxury I can't afford, Isabella. Not anymore."
She looked at him, really looked at the shadows under his eyes, the blood still drying on his sleeve, the faint tremor in his fingers.
He hadn't slept. He hadn't even blinked long enough to rest.
He was running on sheer willpower.
"Damian," she said softly. "When was the last time you slept?"
His jaw flexed. "When the world stopped trying to kill me."
She frowned. "So… never?"
He almost smiled almost. "Something like that."
The humor faded quickly. The air between them thickened again, charged with exhaustion and something deeper, something unspoken.
"Who sent those men?" she asked quietly. "Marco's gone. So who's left?"
His eyes hardened at the name. "That's what I intend to find out."
The sound of the engine deepened as he pressed harder on the accelerator. The trees blurred faster.
The storm had passed, but the air still felt heavy, like it hadn't decided whether to let them go.
After nearly an hour, Damian turned off the main road and into a narrow dirt path lined with cypress trees. The air grew colder, quieter.
When the car finally stopped, Isabella saw a secluded stone villa nestled in the hills, ancient and beautiful, half-hidden behind iron gates.
"This is it," he said simply.
The gates opened with a soft groan, and Damian drove inside.
It wasn't like the Moretti mansion. This place felt… raw. Real. There were no servants, no cameras, no gold chandeliers. Just quiet. Safety. And him.
"Stay close," he said as they stepped out into the crisp morning air. "No one comes here without my permission."
"Not even Luca?" she asked.
His eyes darkened slightly. "Especially not Luca."
Her stomach twisted. "You think someone close to you betrayed us?"
He didn't answer. He just looked at her that intense, unreadable stare that made her forget how to breathe.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost too quiet. "I think someone wants you gone, Isabella. And they don't care how many bodies it takes to make that happen."
The words hit her like ice.
But before she could respond, Damian's hand brushed her arm, a fleeting touch that both steadied and set her on fire.
"Inside," he said. "We'll talk when it's safe."
And as the iron doors closed behind them, sealing them off from the world, Isabella realized something terrifying.
They weren't just hiding from danger.
They were walking straight into it.
The villa was a fortress dressed in silence. Every corner whispered of isolation, thick stone walls, iron locks, and a faint echo of the wind threading through the hall.
Damian moved through it like a man who'd lived there a hundred lives, each step measured and cautious.
Isabella followed, her eyes darting from the shadows to the tall windows veiled by heavy drapes.
"This place," she murmured, "it feels like it hasn't seen sunlight in years."
"That's the point," he replied without turning.
He pushed open a door that led to a small living space, a fireplace, a single couch, a table scattered with old maps, weapons, and files sealed with wax.
Dust lingered in the air, but the place wasn't abandoned. It was waiting.
"For you?" she asked.
"For emergencies like this."
He shrugged off his jacket, revealing the gun holstered at his side and the faint cut running along his neck.
Isabella froze, her gaze catching on the smear of dried blood near his collar.
"You're hurt."
"It's nothing."
"It's not nothing, Damian." She stepped closer before she could stop herself. Her hands trembled slightly as she reached for him. He didn't move, didn't stop her.
Her fingers brushed the edge of the wound, feather-light.
He inhaled sharply not from pain, but from her touch.
"You shouldn't get close to me," he said, voice low.
"Maybe I already am."
For a moment, everything else disappeared the gunfire, the betrayal, the lies. There was only her hand against his skin, the quiet between them thick enough to drown in.
Then Damian pulled back. Slowly. Carefully.
"Go rest," he said, turning away. "I'll check the perimeter."
But she caught his wrist before he could move. "You think you can protect me by pretending you don't care?"
His eyes darkened. "Isabella.."
"No," she whispered. "You keep saying you'll protect me, but from what? The danger outside or the one you carry inside?"
That hit deeper than he expected. For a second, his control cracked and she saw it, the raw edge beneath the armor.
He stepped closer. So close she could feel his breath brush her cheek.
"You have no idea what I carry," he said softly, almost brokenly. "And if you did, you'd run."
Her heart hammered. "Then give me a reason not to."
The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut. He could have kissed her she saw it in his eyes but instead, he turned away, fists clenched.
Before she could speak again, the security monitor on the table flickered.
A movement outside.
Damian's composure vanished in a flash. He snatched up his gun, eyes narrowing. "Stay here."
"Damian, what is it…?"
"Now, Isabella."
She froze as he disappeared down the hallway, every muscle in her body alive with fear.
The sound came next , faint, distant, but unmistakable. Footsteps. Not his.