Chapter 1 - The Blood on the Floor
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The heavy oak doors of Damian’s private office stood partially open at the end of the corridor. The scent of gunpowder and expensive bourbon drifted out into the hallway, a harsh reminder of the violence that had just shattered the evening. My heart hammered a frantic, irregular rhythm against my ribs as I stepped closer. The image of the laser sight creeping across my reflection played on a continuous, terrifying loop in my mind. He had known. He had seen the red dot, measured the trajectory, and pulled me into the line of fire of my own temper just to save my life.
I pushed the door open.
Damian stood by his massive mahogany desk, his tailored suit jacket discarded on the floor. His white dress shirt was ruined, stained with deep crimson blood spreading across his left shoulder. He held a glass of whiskey in his right hand, his face a mask of absolute, terrifying stillness as a private medic carefully removed a jagged piece of wood from his arm.
“You’re bleeding,” I whispered, my voice trembling as I stepped into the room.
Damian’s dark eyes snapped toward me. The coldness in them faltered for a fraction of a second, replaced by a fierce, possessive relief. He waved the medic away with a sharp flick of his wrist.
“It’s a splinter from the chair,” Damian said smoothly, setting his glass down. “Nothing fatal. Come here, Harper.”
I crossed the room slowly, my black uniform shoes silent against the Persian rug. I looked at the blood soaking his sleeve, guilt crashing over me in a suffocating wave. I had slapped him in front of his entire inner circle. I had treated him like an abuser, when in reality, he had been my only shield against a bullet meant to tear through my chest.
“I am so sorry,” I choked out, stopping inches away from him. “I didn't know. I thought you were—”
“You thought I was Tyler,” Damian interrupted, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble. He reached out with his uninjured arm, his large hand gently catching my chin, tilting my face up to meet his intense gaze. “I ran a background check on you the day I hired you, Harper. I know about the man who broke your wrist in Milwaukee. I know why you flinched when I grabbed you. You never have to apologize to me for fighting back.”
I stared at him, the air leaving my lungs. He knew everything about me, yet he hadn't used it against me.
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“Why was the laser on me?” I asked, a fresh wave of terror tightening my stomach. “I’m just a maid, Damian. Nobody wants me dead.”
“You are not a maid anymore,” Damian stated, his thumb brushing lightly across my cheekbone. “And whoever sent that shooter didn't come to assassinate a mafia boss. They came to execute you. And I am going to find out exactly why.”
