DAMIAN
The memories keep coming in flashes. I haven't slept well in two days. Every attempt has proven futile. Each time, I jerk awake, drenched in sweat, my parents screams still echoing in my ears.
My dreams these days are always the same. Only the triggers vary. Sometimes it's the click of a gun. Other times, the crack of gunfire. My father's screams. Water splashing. My mother's desperate voice calling my name.
I squeeze my eyes shut, clenching my jaw. My grip tightens around the glass of scotch I'm holding. A familiar pain sears through my chest.
Control yourself, Visconti. Ms. Thorne will be here soon.
I exhale slowly. The tightness in my chest eases when I open my eyes. I have to play my cards right. Fourteen years of strategizing, of unwavering dedication, of building myself into a weapon Arthur Thorne never saw coming. None of it can go to waste now.
I allow each memory to surface one last time. My father's face. My mother's screams. The day Arthur Thorne destroyed everything.
I raise my glass and drain it in one gulp. The scotch burns down my throat. Good. At least it offers me temporary relief.
I stare out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the Manhattan skyline. The world outside is dark, the city lights glittering like scattered diamonds below. Inside, I've dimmed the lights to just above shadow. The perfect setting for what's about to happen.
When Ms. Thorne arrives, she'll understand immediately. This is business. Nothing more.
My phone rings. I pull it from my pocket. Alex Castillo's name appears on the screen. I set my glass on the side table and answer.
"Castillo."
"Everything's ready, Damian. The contract is airtight. Once she signs, you're covered legally on all fronts."
I turn back to the window, one hand in my pocket.
"And the medical clause?" I ask.
"Solid. You'll cover all expenses for her mother's care at Riverside Medical Center, best private facility in the state. Round-the-clock nursing, top neurologists, everything. But the moment she violates any terms of the contract, funding stops immediately."
"Good."
A pause. For a moment, I think he's hung up. Then his voice returns, quieter.
"You're sure she'll sign? This is... aggressive, even for you."
There's an edge of concern in his voice. From anyone else, I'd find it pathetic.
"She'll sign," I say. Cold. Clinical. Castillo should know better than to question me by now.
"And if she doesn't?"
Mila was never part of my original plan. But her mother's accident and Arthur's cold abandonment proved more convenient than I could have imagined. Why destroy the man directly when I can take what he values most?
"She will," I say. "She has seventy-two hours before her mother is discharged from Echelon. She has no money, no support, and no options. She'll sign."
Castillo sighs. We've been friends since childhood. Where he remained warm and idealistic, I became something else entirely.
"What about Arthur? When he finds out you've married his daughter..."
I cut him off, a cold smile crossing my face.
"That's the point, Castillo. When Arthur finds out, it will be too late."
My phone vibrates during the call. I glance at the screen. A text from Marcus.
On schedule. ETA 10 minutes.
Perfect.
"I've known you for years, Damian," Castillo continues. "I've never seen you go this far for revenge."
His words sit heavy in my chest, like stones.
I clench my fist. When I speak, my voice is ice.
"You know what he took from me. I'm only returning the favor."
Castillo sighs, the sound defeated. Nothing has changed my mind in fourteen years. Nothing will now.
"Alright," he says, conceding. "Call me when it's done."
"I will."
The line goes silent.
---
Marcus's timing is impeccable. Ten minutes exactly. I hear the elevator chime from the entrance hall.
I don't turn from the window. The air feels charged now, electric with anticipation.
"She's here, Mr. Visconti," Marcus says from behind me, his voice neutral and professional.
"Show her to the conference room," I say.
"Yes, Mr. Visconti."
I hear his footsteps recede across the black marble floor. Then silence. Then, faintly, the elevator doors opening again. Heels clicking on marble. Her voice, soft and uncertain, saying something I can't make out. Marcus's low reply.
For a moment, curiosity flickers. What is she saying to him?
The voices stop. She must be entering the conference room now.
Showtime, Visconti.
A cold smile touches my lips.
I move silently from the window toward the conference room. When I reach the doorway, I pause in the shadows.
Ms. Thorne stands in the center of the room, taking in her surroundings. The dim lighting, the stark white table, the distance between the two chairs positioned at opposite ends. Her portfolio is clutched in both hands like a shield. Marcus has already left. Good.
I step forward, my footsteps deliberate now. She doesn't hear me until I'm only a few feet away.
"Ms. Thorne."
She spins around, startled. For a fraction of a second, genuine fear flashes across her face before she schools her expression into something calmer.
"Mr. Visconti." Her voice is steady, professional. Warmer than I expected. "Thank you for the invitation."
I study her in the low light. The black silk gown is perfectly tailored, fitted at the bodice before flowing from the waist. Elegant. Expensive. Probably from her previous life. Her dark hair falls past her shoulders, catching the dim glow from the city lights beyond the windows.
Beautiful.
But irrelevant to why she's here.
It's almost like Mila dressing up to choose her own coffin.
My gaze drops to the portfolio in her hands.
"Please," I say, gesturing to the table. "Sit."
The conference table stretches between us, white marble, imposing. Two chairs positioned at opposite ends. Maximum distance. A brown leather envelope sits at the far end, waiting. A crystal pitcher of water and two glasses rest in the center.
I take my seat. Ms. Thorne hesitates, then moves to the chair at the opposite end, twelve feet away. A calculated distance.
She shifts in her chair, her eyes darting around the room. The sparse lighting, the cold formality, the silence.
Good. Keep her off-balance. That's the point.
"Water?" I gesture to the glass in front of her.
She shakes her head. "No, thank you."
"For what we'll be discussing, Ms. Thorne, you might need it."
I stand. My footsteps echo on the marble as I walk toward her end of the table. She watches me warily, her gaze tracking my every movement.
I reach for the pitcher and pour water into her glass, the sound loud in the quiet room.
"I insist," I say, extending it to her.
Her gaze drops to my hand. Her lips part slightly. She swallows.
She reaches for the glass. Our fingers brush for a fraction of a second.
The contact sends an unexpected jolt through me. I crush the feeling immediately.
I step back and return to my seat.
Ms. Thorne doesn't drink. She just holds the glass like an armor.
Silence stretches between us. She clears her throat, straightening her shoulders. Professional mode.
She sets down the glass and opens her portfolio.
"Shall we begin, Mr. Visconti?" She pulls out a presentation folder. "L'Etoile Noir is honored that you're considering us for your expansion into haute couture. We believe our design philosophy and your brand's commitment to excellence make this a natural partnership."
"No," I say simply.
Her brows furrow. "I'm sorry?"
"I didn't call you here to discuss a partnership with L'Etoile Noir." I reach for my own glass and pour water halfway. I don't drink it. Just hold it, mirroring her defensive posture. "The only partnership we'll be discussing tonight, Ms. Thorne, is the one I intend to have with you."
Intend. Not hope. Not request. This isn't a negotiation.
"I don't understand," she says.
I gesture to the envelope in front of her.
"I have a proposal for you, Ms. Thorne. One you can't afford to refuse. The details are inside. Open it."
Her eyes narrow with suspicion. She reaches for the envelope slowly, hesitantly.
I continue speaking before she can open it.
"Your mother's life depends on it."
She freezes. Her face goes pale. The envelope forgotten in her hands.
"Ms. Thorne." I lean forward, fingers interlaced on the table. "I can give your mother the treatment she desperately needs. But it will cost you something. A small price, really. Affordable."
She sucks in a sharp breath. I watch the realization settle over her features.
Good.
Her hands tremble. The envelope slips slightly in her grip.
"How..." Her voice cracks. She clears her throat, tries again. "How do you know about my mother?"
I don't answer. Just gesture to the envelope.
"Everything you need to know is in there. Read it. Then we'll talk."
Her silence tells me everything. She's already considering it, even if she doesn't realize it yet.
I finally reach for my glass and sip, taking my time.
Now, the real game begins.