The metal cuffs clanged against the interrogation table as Aria was forced into her seat, her wrists locked down with cold steel that bit into her skin. Twelve Syndicate bosses sat in a semicircle around her, looming like judges at an execution. The room smelled of gun oil, cigar smoke, and old blood—the perfume of men who built empires out of suffering. Aria kept her head down, but she felt every stare crawling over her body, stripping her down to nothing but prey.
Damian stood in the center, silent as a blade. His suit was black, tailored sharp enough to cut. His eyes were colder than she had ever seen—dead, empty, monstrous. He didn’t look at her. Not once. And that hurt more than the restraints.
The oldest boss leaned forward. “Begin, Wolfe. Prove she’s not your weakness.”
Damian didn’t answer. He lifted a switch from the tray—a thin, flexible strip of leather meant to sting, humiliate, break. He ran his thumb slowly along the edge, as if testing a weapon before use.
Aria’s pulse thundered. “Damian…” Her voice cracked, and she hated that it did.
He finally looked at her. Not with warmth. Not with hatred. With nothing.
“State your full name,” he said, voice flat.
“Aria Navarro,” she whispered.
His jaw tightened, but he didn’t react. “Your father’s dealings with the Syndicate. Tell them everything.”
“I told you already—I didn’t know—”
“Answer the question.”
His voice snapped through the air like a whip. The bosses leaned in, delighted by the cruelty. Aria’s stomach twisted.
“I don’t know anything,” she said, stronger this time.
Damian circled her slowly, steps measured, lethal. He asked again. And again. Each repetition was harder, sharper, meant to sound like interrogation—but every word was a message meant for the men watching, not for her.
Still, the room grew restless.
“She lies,” one man said, tapping ashes into a tray.
“Break her,” another hissed.
Damian stopped behind Aria. For a terrifying second, she felt the warmth of his breath against her neck—but the tension coiled in him wasn’t rage at her. It was something darker. More dangerous. Something he couldn’t express with the eyes watching.
“Aria,” he said softly, dangerously. “Who ordered the breach on my tower?”
“I DON’T KNOW!” she cried.
He slammed his palm onto the table. The metal dented under his hand. Half the bosses flinched. Aria jerked, heart pounding.
Another boss sneered. “If she’s useless, give her to us. We’ll get the answers.”
Damian’s head snapped toward him. “Touch her and I’ll rip out your spine.”
The room fell silent.
The hatred in his voice wasn’t aimed at Aria—it was aimed at anyone who thought they could lay a hand on her. But the bosses had to believe this was all performance. They had to believe he was still theirs.
So Damian turned back to Aria.
And he played the monster they needed.
His fist crashed down on the table again, cracking the wood clean through. Splinters scattered across the floor. The bosses recoiled.
Aria flinched hard—even though the blow wasn’t meant for her.
“Your answers are pathetic,” Damian snarled, pacing again. “If you’re lying, I will know.”
The board exchanged glances—murmurs growing. Satisfied murmurs. They were starting to believe him again.
When the questioning finally ended, the bosses filed out, convinced Damian had proven his loyalty. Convinced Aria meant nothing. Convinced the interrogation had been real.
The heavy doors slammed shut.
Aria broke.
Tears spilled down her cheeks, silent at first, then shaking her whole body. “Why?” Her voice trembled like glass. “Why did you do that to me? Why did you humiliate me in front of them? Why did you—”
Damian’s façade shattered.
He leaned both hands onto the ruined table, shoulders heaving as if the weight of the last hour had crushed him from the inside. His voice came out raw, cracked open.
“If I didn’t humiliate you,” he whispered, “they would’ve killed you.”
Aria’s breath hitched.
Damian lifted his head. His eyes were no longer dead—they were burning, tormented, devastated.
“I had to show them I don’t care about you,” he said. “Or they would have torn you apart.”
Aria shook, tears falling harder. “So you let them tear me apart instead.”
Damian stepped toward her, then stopped halfway—caught between reaching for her and keeping distance before he destroyed something fragile.
“You think I wanted to do this?” His voice cracked again, something she’d never heard. Not even in rage. “You think hurting you felt like victory?”
Aria looked away.
He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. “If I had chosen you over the Syndicate tonight… you’d already be dead on this table.”
Silence strangled the room.
Damian finally reached for her cuffs—not roughly, not possessively—but with shaking hands. He unlocked her slowly. Carefully. As if afraid she would break under his touch.
When the last shackle fell away, Aria didn’t move.
Damian stepped back, breathing hard like he’d run miles. His voice fell to a whisper—one she wasn’t meant to hear.
“I am losing this fight,” he said. “And it terrifies me more than war ever has.”
Aria lifted her eyes.
Damian Wolfe—the man who ruled a city of blood and fear—looked at her like she was the only battle he could not win.