The announcement hit Wolfe Tower like a knife to the throat.
A Syndicate-wide gathering. A ceremony to “honor” Damian Wolfe’s retaliation killings. A grotesque victory parade drenched in blood and hypocrisy.
Every family was required to attend. And every boss demanded that Damian bring his “asset.”
Aria. When Damian entered her room, he tossed a garment bag onto the bed with a sharp flick of his wrist. “Put it on,” he said.
Aria unzipped it and felt her stomach drop. A black silk dress—sleek, backless, clinging, unmistakably intimate. It matched his suit.
Her voice trembled with fury. “You want me to match you like some kind of—”
“Asset,” he cut in coldly. “And appearances matter.”
“That’s not all this is,” Aria whispered.
Damian’s jaw ticked. “Get dressed. Now.”
She did—but the defiance burning in her chest only grew.
***
The venue looked like a cathedral carved from violence—red carpets, gold chandeliers dripping with blood-money elegance, marble pillars imported from countries Damian had conquered in silence. Cameras flashed like lightning. Syndicate guards lined the hall like statues ready to kill.
But the moment Aria stepped inside on Damian’s arm, the world changed.
All eyes snapped toward her.
Hungry. Curious. Cruel.
She felt like she was walking into the lion’s den wearing a ribbon around her throat.
Damian’s hand immediately found the small of her back—firm, possessive, unmoving. Each time a camera flash made her flinch, his fingers pressed harder, guiding her closer to his side, anchoring her as if she might vanish.
The heads of the crime families whispered behind jeweled masks.
“Navarro’s girl…”
“Wolfe dressed her up like a pet…”
“Pretty little hostage…”
“Perfect bargaining chip…”
Aria’s lungs tightened.
Damian heard every word.
His hand slid lower.
Protective. Territorial. Furious.
When one boss—a drunk, heavy-handed brute—leaned in with a smirk and traced a finger toward Aria’s cheek, Damian moved faster than a heartbeat.
He grabbed the man by the back of the skull and slammed him face-first into a marble pillar.
The impact echoed through the hall like thunder.
Blood splattered across the polished stone.
Gasps erupted. Guns were drawn. The room tipped toward chaos.
Damian pressed a gun under the man’s jaw with a quiet, deadly calm.
“Touch her again,” he murmured, “and I’ll leave your corpse right here for your sons to collect.”
The entire Syndicate fell silent.
Guards froze.
Bosses lowered their weapons.
Aria’s breath trembled—because Damian didn’t shield her from the sight. He held her behind him with one arm while pointing a gun with the other, as if protecting her had become instinct.
His instinct. Not logic. Not strategy. Not politics. Something darker.
***
The ceremony devolved into a bloodbath of threats, screaming, power shifts, and drunken violence masquerading as diplomacy. Damian said nothing through most of it, jaw clenched, fingers drumming violently against Aria’s back as if grounding himself.
Every time a rival boss looked at her too long, Damian pulled her even closer.
Every time someone whispered about Tribute Night, the muscle in his jaw jumped.
Every time Aria’s breath hitched, Damian’s shoulders squared, ready to kill.
By the end, he was shaking—not with fear. With fury.
He tore her out of the ballroom, practically dragging her past guards and through gold-plated doors until they reached the limousine waiting outside.
He shoved the door open and turned on her, chest heaving.
“This Syndicate,” he growled, voice breaking at the edges, “is pushing me past my limit.”
Aria blinked, startled by the tremor in his voice.
Damian raked a hand through his hair, pacing like a caged animal. The night air smelled of gunpowder and roses, chaos still clinging to him like a second skin.
“I’m losing patience with all of them,” he hissed, eyes burning with murderous exhaustion. “And if they touch you again—if they even look at you like that—I will start a war I can’t take back.”
He didn’t realize what he’d admitted.
That he wasn’t just protecting her out of duty.
Or rage.
Or revenge.
Something else was beginning to burn beneath all the violence. Something he wasn’t ready to face. Something that scared them both.