The next morning, the Syndicate conference floor throbbed with tension—the kind that tasted like metal on the tongue. Mafia CEOs, lineage bosses, and old-world crime families filled the obsidian meeting chamber, their tailored suits brushing against gun holsters, their rings glinting like silent oaths of violence. The moment Damian Wolfe stepped inside, the air snapped to attention. He walked with a predator’s stride, black suit perfectly fitted despite the bandage hidden beneath the fabric at his shoulder.
Aria was dragged behind him like a shadow tethered by fear. The collar around her throat gleamed under the lights. Every head turned. Every stare burned. Some looked at her with disgust. Others with interest. A few with an appetite that made her stomach twist. Sabrina Knox sat near the head of the table, legs crossed, gaze sharp as razors, a smirk curling at the sight of Aria’s arrival—because chaos was Sabrina’s favorite perfume.
Damian didn’t sit. He stood at the head of the table, voice cutting through the room like a blade.
“Blood retaliation,” he announced. “Immediate. A dozen enemies dead by midnight. Every individual who stepped foot into my tower will be hunted and erased.”
A ripple of shock moved through the chamber. Whispers spread like sparks. Several CEOs shifted uncomfortably. Others nodded slowly, hungry for the violence. Aria’s pulse hammered so loud she wondered if they could all hear it.
Sabrina’s smirk widened.
Aria remained beside Damian, collar exposed—because he wanted it exposed. A threat. A declaration. A warning.
One of the older bosses leaned back in his leather chair, eyes raking over Aria like she was a piece of livestock being appraised. “Wolfe,” he drawled, “if the attackers want the girl, then use her. Dangle her. Bait the trap.”
The words struck Aria like a slap.
Before anyone could blink, Damian launched across the table.
His fist collided with the man’s nose in a sickening crack. Blood splattered across documents and polished wood. Chaos detonated. Chairs scraped back. Guns were drawn. Shouts erupted in overlapping fury. Some Syndicate heads rose in outrage; others looked entertained, waiting to see who would die first.
“Try that again,” Damian snarled, pinning the old man down by the throat, “and I’ll carve your tongue out and feed it to your sons.”
Jaxon moved, trying to pull Damian back, but Damian’s rage was wildfire—untouchable, uncontainable. His breath came in heavy bursts, his eyes wild, a shadow of his younger tortured self bleeding through the cracks.
Even the families who hated him most stayed frozen.
Wolfe in a frenzy was a death sentence.
When Damian finally released the man, the CEO collapsed into his chair, gasping, blood pouring through his fingers. The room shook in a tense silence. Nobody dared speak. Nobody dared look at Aria again.
Damian straightened, fixing his suit with slow, violent precision.
“The girl stays with me,” he said. “She is not bait. She is not currency. She is not a bargaining chip. Anyone who tries to touch her dies.”
He didn’t ask for agreement—he demanded obedience.
The meeting ended in fractured shouting, threats, and slammed doors. But one truth hung in the air like smoke: Damian Wolfe had chosen war rather than surrender Aria.
That alone terrified her.
When the last boss stormed out, Damian grabbed her arm with bruising force and dragged her through the corridor. The door to his office slammed behind them with a sound that echoed like a gunshot.
Aria stumbled as he released her, the impact forcing a gasp out of her chest. Damian paced like an animal barely held by its own skin. His hands were shaking again—the way they did last night in the bunker. The collar pulsed against her throat, a reminder of just how trapped she was.
He turned on her.
“You are now the Syndicate’s most valuable target,” he said, voice like broken stone. “They will kill you, take you, or sell you to the highest bidder. Every man in that room is thinking about how to use you against me.”
Aria’s voice cracked. “And being alive feels worse than being dead.”
Damian stopped. His chest rose once—twice—as if absorbing a blow he hadn’t expected.
In two strides he was in front of her, fingers gripping her chin, tilting her face up. His touch was harsh, possessive, trembling with too much emotion for a man who claimed to feel nothing.
“You don’t get to die,” he growled, voice low enough to bruise the air. “Not by their hands. Not by fate. Not by your own damn wishes.”
She trembled.
“You live,” he whispered, lips brushing anger against her skin, “until I decide your debt is paid.”
Aria felt the room tilt. Not because of fear.
But because in Damian Wolfe’s eyes—behind the fury, behind the hate—she saw something far more terrifying:
He meant every word.