The gala was thick with smoke, laughter, and the polite clinking of glasses. Deals worth millions were made in whispers between smiles, and Damian Moretti sat like a dark pillar amid it all. His presence alone kept the chaos orderly—those gray eyes behind his glasses as sharp as blades, the immaculate black suit stretching over broad shoulders, and the faint curl of disdain on his lips as he listened to two investors babble about new trade routes.

He reclined on the velvet sofa with the posture of a man who owned the room without ever needing to announce it. In his hand, a glass of amber whiskey caught the light like fire, but his mind was elsewhere, always calculating, always watching. He was calm, elegant, untouchable.

Until his enemy walked by.

Alexander Romano. The man had an ego bigger than his empire and a hunger for chaos Damian had always found vulgar. Tonight, he was dressed in cream silk and arrogance, surrounded by his entourage, prowling like a wolf that mistook itself for a lion. Romano’s laughter was sharp, and his eyes found prey the moment he spotted her.

She was stunning in her crimson dress, a woman whose beauty cut through the dim haze of cigar smoke. Black hair tumbled like ink down her shoulders, skin pale against the rich silk that wrapped her figure like it had been made for her alone. Jewels glimmered at her ears, but it was her presence that made people turn. She stood near the sofa, a drink in her hand, poised yet visibly aware of Romano closing in.

He leaned too close. His voice, low and greasy, carried enough for Damian to catch every word. “Red suits you, bella. Though I’d prefer to see you out of it.” His hand brushed dangerously near her arm, his grin shameless.

The shift in Damian’s expression was subtle, but deadly. His partners faltered mid-sentence as if sensing the sudden drop in temperature.

Then, it happened.

In one smooth, practiced motion, Damian set his glass aside, his arm sliding around her waist before Romano could even react. He pulled her down onto his lap with effortless authority, his other hand already closing around cold steel. The polished revolver appeared as if conjured, gleaming beneath the chandeliers.

The room froze.

Romano stiffened, a half-step back, his smirk faltering under Damian’s steady, merciless gaze. Damian said nothing—he didn’t need to. His eyes alone spoke the language of warning, as sharp as a promise of death.

The woman inhaled softly, her breath catching in surprise as she found herself perched elegantly against him, her crimson dress spilling across his black suit like blood on midnight silk. Her hand instinctively touched his chest, steadying herself. She didn’t resist. She didn’t need to. Everyone in the room knew she was safer in his arms than anywhere else.

But Damian? He simply adjusted his glasses with one finger, placed the revolver across his knee, and turned back to his partners. “As I was saying,” his voice was smooth, unshaken, “the shipping routes through Marseille are more profitable than anticipated. If we secure the contracts before quarter’s end, there’s a margin of at least twenty percent.”

The businessmen nodded stiffly, eyes flicking nervously to the revolver in his hand, then to Romano, who still lingered nearby like a dog scolded in front of guests. The air was so tight it could snap, yet Damian remained calm, his tone even, his hand absently resting on the woman’s thigh as though she had always belonged there.

Romano muttered something under his breath, his pride wounded, and stormed off with his entourage in tow. A ripple of whispers spread through the room.

Still, Damian did not acknowledge it. He spoke of figures and routes, iron control wrapped around every word. Only when his partners excused themselves—half-relieved to escape his shadow—did silence settle between him and the woman.

She hadn’t moved from his lap. Her eyes, deep and dark, lingered on him with an expression he rarely saw: gratitude, quiet and disbelieving. She hadn’t asked for protection, yet he had offered it with ruthless clarity. For her.