Chapter 11 - The Truth in the Dark
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Silence settled over the tunnel like a heavy blanket.
The four Sicilian hitmen lay dead on the damp brick floor. The smell of copper blood and cordite filled the narrow space.
Damian stepped out from behind the wine barrel, his gun lowered, staring at the young woman standing amidst the fallen mercenaries. She was breathing slightly heavily, a thin cut on her cheek bleeding a single red tear down her skin, but her posture was victorious and absolute.
"You really are a monster," Damian whispered, his tone filled with pure, unadulterated awe.
"I told you," Wren said softly, dropping the empty submachine gun to her side. "I was trained by people who didn't believe in second chances."
Damian walked over to her, pulling a silk handkerchief from his pocket. He didn't ask permission. He reached out and gently, tenderly wiped the bead of blood from her cheek.
Wren stiffened at his touch, her eyes locking onto his. For five years, nobody had touched her with gentleness. Every touch had been a threat, a command, or a blow.
"Why didn't you come to me?" Damian asked, his voice low and thick with genuine emotion. "Five years ago, after you saved me... you knew who I was. You knew the Ricci family had the power to protect you."
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"Nobody protects anyone in our world, Damian," Wren said, looking down at the handkerchief in his hand. "Protection is just another word for ownership. I didn't want to belong to another Don."
"I don't want to own you, Wren," Damian said, his thumb gently brushing across her cheekbone. "I wanted to find you because you were the only person in a dark world who didn't ask for a price."
