The underground club pulsed like a heartbeat—dark, slow, filthy. Velvet walls swallowed the light. Red lamps bathed every corner in a seductive glow that made sin look ceremonial. Gold cages lined the perimeter, some occupied, some waiting, all humming with the same dangerous promise: pain traded like currency, pleasure sharpened into a weapon.
Every mafia family in the Syndicate was there, dressed in tailored power—suits like armor, gowns like knives, smiles dripping with a cruelty Aria could taste at the back of her tongue.
Damian Wolfe didn’t walk inside.
He arrived—pulling Aria behind him on a diamond chain attached directly to the collar around her throat.
The moment the chain tightened, the entire room went silent.
Aria’s stomach twisted. The collar was cold metal, but the chain? That was worse. It was deliberate humiliation—Damian spelling out ownership with something too beautiful and too cruel to ignore.
The chain glittered under the red lights as he tugged her closer, his grip firm, unyielding, a silent warning to everyone watching.
Her breath caught when she felt his fingers brush her neck, adjusting the collar, his body heat pressing against her spine for one devastating second.
Not gentle. Not comforting. Just claiming.
“Move,” Damian said low enough that only she could hear, voice dark enough to be mistaken for a threat. “Don’t make me drag you.”
Every head turned toward them. Some eyes glittered with disgust. Some with hunger. Some with the kind of lust that made Aria’s knees weaken in terror.
All of them wanted Navarro blood—her blood.
A rival boss stepped forward, eyes raking down Aria’s body, lingering on her thighs, her collar, the chain Damian held so possessively tight.
“Wolfe,” the man said, grinning like a wolf smelling prey. “Bring the girl forward. Tradition demands you offer your asset.”
The room shifted—leaning in, waiting, greedy. Damian didn’t blink, didn’t breathe, didn’t release the chain.
“No,” he said.
Just one word, cold enough to frost glass. Gasps shot across the club.
The boss laughed sharply. “What do you mean ‘no’? She’s Navarro trash. She deserves to be offered. She deserves to be used.”
Aria’s throat closed. The man’s eyes traveled lower, shameless, hungry, promising exactly what “use” meant in this room.
Something snapped. Damian didn’t move like a man. He moved like a weapon.
His hand shot out, fingers locking around the man’s skull. He slammed the man’s head into the nearest glass table with such brutal force that the entire surface exploded under the impact.
Shards scattered across velvet floors. Blood sprayed across Damian’s suit sleeve.
Aria cried out, stumbling backward, the chain tugging against her neck. Around them, guns rose.
Chairs scraped. Men shouted. And dozens of safety switches clicked.
In the middle of the chaos, Damian stepped between her and them, instinctively covering her body with his. His arm dragged her flush against him, his stance a shield formed from hatred, violence, and something far more dangerous than protection.
His gun was out before she saw him reach for it.
“No one touches her!” Damian roared. His voice filled the club, deep and ruthless, vibrating with a darkness that silenced the entire room.
“She belongs to me.”
Time froze.
Because Damian Wolfe never protected anyone. He never claimed anyone. He never spoke possession like a vow. And he sure as hell would never protect a Navarro.
But here he was—holding Aria behind him like she was something he’d kill to keep safe, even while every breath he took radiated hatred toward her existence. His hand gripped her waist, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, as if anchoring her to him by force.
Men lowered their guns—not out of respect, but out of fear.
No one challenged Damian Wolfe when he sounded like that.
He dragged Aria out of the club through a side stairwell, his hand crushing her hip, pulling her steps into his. Her heart pounded so violently she felt dizzy. Damian’s breathing was hard, furious, like he was fighting the urge to break someone else’s bones on the way out.
The moment the heavy metal door clanged shut behind them, Aria dared to speak.
Her voice was barely a whisper. “Why… why did you protect me?”
Damian turned sharply. Too sharply.
He grabbed her chin, fingers biting into her skin, forcing her to look up at him. His chest rose and fell with rage. His eyes burned with something raw, broken, terrifying.
“You want the truth?” he hissed.
Aria swallowed, trembling under his grip.
His gaze dropped to her lips—an involuntary, unwanted flicker—then snapped back to her eyes with hatred doubling.
“Because I don’t share,” he said, voice low and sinful, each word dripping with violent possession.
His thumb dragged along her jaw, a touch too intimate for the way he glared at her.
“Not my blood,” he continued.
“Not my territory.”
His voice dropped even lower, dark enough to burn through her skin.
“Not even the things I hate.”