Damian stood at the marble bar in the penthouse suite of The Platinum Club, formerly known as The Church. Silence pressed against him like an unrelenting tide as he stared at an empty crystal tumbler in his hand.

A sleek bottle of bourbon sat within arm's reach on the bar. His hand hovered near it as the urge to pour the amber liquid into the tumbler grew maddening. He could already taste it—the burning warmth, the easy numbness. He glanced at the etched label on the bottle, then at his reflection in the glass.

His hollow eyes stared back, mocking him.

Not tonight.

With a heavy sigh, Damian pushed the tumbler away and reached for a bottle of sparkling water. The hiss of carbonation felt anticlimactic when he twisted the cap off to take a long sip.

Small victories, right?

He stared at the city's neon lights through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The suite was part of his legal brothel and strip club, which took the top three floors of a downtown skyrise building. Valentina rebranded the business to be at the forefront of changing times: clean lines and muted opulence—brushed gold accents, custom Italian furnishings, and curated modern art. The club exuded exclusivity and power, catering to its high-end clientele: politicians, tycoons, and celebrities who could afford their sins wrapped in the finest silk sheets.

Damian sank into the plush leather sofa, staring at the spot near the hallway where he'd once pinned Chloe against the wall. He could still see her flushed cheeks and feel the warmth of her skin beneath his palms as he pressed her there, peppering the curve of her neck with kisses.

Her soft, breathless voice came back to him. "More, Dami. Please, I need you."

Now, the whole fucking room felt empty.

Lifeless.

He stared at the wall-mounted clock across him. Thirty minutes until Sofia, Angelo, and the others would gather in the meeting room to untangle this nightmare.

But his chest constricted, and his pulse hammered against his ribs. His heart sank again, the pull of the past dragging him down like a riptide.

Damian gritted his teeth and took another sip of water. It did nothing to dull the pain.

He couldn't forget the worst night of his life.

***

Seven months ago...

It had been too quiet when Damian returned to the cabin that night.

It was the kind of quiet that prickled at the edges of his instincts, setting his nerves on edge. Something wasn't right.

The fire in the hearth burned low, with embers flickering weakly against the darkness. Long and distorted shadows danced across the glass walls like apparitions.

"Chloe?" Damian called out, his voice cutting through the silence.

Nothing.

He called again, louder this time. His voice echoed, hollow and unanswered.

His heart pounded harder with each empty room he checked. Bedroom. Bathroom. Kitchen.

Gone.

It felt like the walls were closing in on him, squeezing the air from his lungs. Panic clawed at his mind, warning him something was wrong.

Then he saw it.

A note lay on the mantle, folded precisely like a sinister invitation. Words scrawled in jagged, slanted letters, the ink smeared as though by blood.

A manicured fingertip glinted on the hardwood floor near the faint firelight, its paleness a stark, horrifying contrast to the crimson blood that clung to it.

Chloe's.

Damian's stomach lurched. The world tilted, and for a second, he swore the ground beneath his feet wasn't solid. His knees bent as he crouched, his breath hitching as he stared at the grotesque scene.

His trembling fingers reached for the note. Four brief, savage lines stared back at him:

An eye for an eye.

A tooth for a tooth.

A life for a life.

MM.

Mike Marino.

The name struck him like a poisoned blade to the gut. Rage exploded inside him. He grabbed his phone, called the security manager, and barked orders. "Lock down the grounds. Nobody leaves or enters. Pull every camera feed—now."

But he already knew it was too late.

The aftermath was a chaotic mess.

The security footage told a brutal story. Sara—Damian's former housekeeper, a woman he once trusted—was captured on camera sweet-talking one of his guards at the estate gates. She smiled and patted his arm like she still belonged there. Then, behind her, two hulking men emerged from the shadows, their faces partially obscured.

The footage of the moments later was grainy, but it was clear enough to show what happened next: one of the men hoisted Chloe over his shoulder like a sack of grain, her head lolling as they left the premises.

The fury Damian felt watching that footage consumed him. It was more than anger; it was something darker and bloodier, the kind of wrath that could murder without regret.

When Agent Hahn's team arrived, Sara and the men were long gone. The guard, trembling under questioning, admitted Marino had paid him off.

Angelo stepped in. Calm. Unshakable.

"My men will take care of it, ragazzo mio," he promised.

Angelo's "care" meant revenge. A week later, Sara's body was found in a rundown motel two hours west of Lester Harbor. Stab wounds marred her chest and neck, and the blood splatter on the walls told Damian all he needed to know about how it had ended for her.

Angelo's men had tried to track Mike's thugs, but they'd vanished. Sara, even under extreme persuasion, revealed nothing. Her words to Angelo were: "I loved Damian. I gave him everything, and he chose Chloe. I went to Marino."

Jealousy had twisted Sara's mind into something monstrous. Angelo said she turned to Mike Marino out of spite, her delusions feeding Marino's vendetta against Damian.

And then there was her final, bitter claim: "Chloe was already dead. Burned. Buried in the forest near the estate."

Angelo had ended Sara's life, but it solved nothing. No Chloe to rescue. No closure. Only an ash-stained nightmare.

***

Damian clenched the water bottle in his hand now, the plastic crinkling. He remembered seeing the charred body he'd thought was Chloe's—the missing fingertip. He still kept her gold ring planted on the body.

The funeral was his hell. He cradled Dawn in his arms, crying tears of pain as they lowered the casket. Darkness swallowed him in the months that followed. Nights blurred into a haze of liquor, hollow affairs, and relentless, gnawing guilt.

Each time he closed his eyes, he saw Chloe's face or that gruesome fingertip on the cabin floor. He hated himself for not protecting her, for letting evil slip under his radar.

But now, he knew the truth.

Chloe wasn't in that grave. The body wasn't hers.

She's out there. Somewhere.

Hope clung to Damian's heart now, fierce and unyielding. It wasn't just hope—it was purpose. A lifeline. When he found Chloe, Marino wouldn't just answer for what he'd done. He would beg.

Damian's lips curved into a cold, ruthless smile, the kind that didn't reach his eyes. Revenge wasn't just a fantasy anymore—it was a promise.

And it would be exquisite.

***

The elevator chimed, jerking Damian from his thoughts.

"Don't tell me you're brooding," Valentina said as she strolled into the penthouse. Her sleek ponytail, pulled tight and high, made her look regal. Her jeans and fitted black leather jacket complimented her tall frame. There was no mistaking the energy she carried into the room: bold and unrelenting.

"I'm not brooding," Damian replied, setting the water bottle on the coffee table.

"You could've fooled me," she shot back.

Behind her, Chase followed with his usual careless charm, his wavy chestnut hair falling perfectly into place. He looked like he'd strolled in straight from an exclusive party at the Hamptons, his tailored navy blazer clinging to his lean frame, the subtle gold trim on his cuffs just visible when he shoved his hands into his pockets.

"Hey, man," Chase said, his smirk flashing like a weapon as he dropped onto the couch across from Damian without waiting for an invitation. "You look... well, like shit."

"Thanks for the insight," Damian deadpanned, lifting his water bottle to take another sip.

Val settled beside Chase, crossing one leg over the other. "Dami, we've been friends for forever. I've always known you to be in control. Restrained. Precise. That 'untouchable billionaire' thing you've got going. But lately? You're spiraling."

Damian pinched the bridge of his nose. "Do we have to do this now?"

Val leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "The way Chase was before he and I started dating? You make him look like a saint."

"Hey!" Chase protested. The grin tugging at his lips betrayed his mock offense.

"Don't 'hey' me," Val shot back, giving him a playful shove before refocusing on Damian. "The point is, you've got to pull yourself together."

Chase nodded, resting a hand on Val's knee. "She's right. Look, man, I've been where you are—feeling empty, the lonely nights, the women. You think it's filling some void, but it's not. It doesn't fix shit. Now, knowing Chloe might still be alive? You've gotta put her first. My uncle told me why he's coming here tonight."

Damian's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

Val's voice softened, her usual sharpness giving way to a gentler side. "Chloe's my friend. I'd hate to see her hurt. And I've been thinking... what if she's already seen the news? The women. The parties. Dami, do you know what that would do to her? What if she thinks you've forgotten her?"

Damian barked a bitter laugh. "If she had access to the news, don't you think I'd have heard from her? She's trapped out there somewhere. Cut off from the world. I love her, Val. I'm going to find her." His green eyes darkened, burning with quiet intensity. "I'm done with the drink, the flings, and the self-hate. It stops now."

Chase stood, clapping Damian on the shoulder. "That's what I wanted to hear. Call me if you need anything—a private jet, off-the-grid transport. I've got you."

Damian shrugged him off, leaning back against the sofa. "I didn't invite you to this meeting."

"I know." Chase grinned, his dimples flashing. "Just dropping in before you meet with my uncle. Thought I'd make sure you didn't scare anyone off with your sunny disposition."

Val laughed softly, lightening the tension in the room. "Speaking of sunny, thanks for trusting me with the club. And for the bonus."

"You earned it. This club is what it is because of you."

Her sapphire eyes glittered with gratitude, but her response was cut short when Chase leaned in and kissed her temple.

The sight hit Damian harder than he expected, jealousy stabbing through him so sharply it almost made him flinch. That should've been him and Chloe. The easy touches, the shared smiles. They'd stolen moments like that once, and it always felt right. Natural.

Still, he was glad for the couple, even if it stung. There was a time, what felt like a lifetime ago, when Chase had been a rival for Chloe's affection. Back then, Damian couldn't see past the competition. Now? He saw Chase for what he was—an ally. A friend. Someone who cared in his own cocky, infuriating way.

"We should let you prep for your meeting," Chase said, straightening his jacket. "Besides, I'm sure my uncle will have plenty to say about me showing up uninvited.'"

"Smart man," Damian said, one corner of his mouth lifting in a faint, fleeting smile.

Chase turned to Val, offering her his hand. "Ready?"

"Always," she said, taking it with a grin. She paused at the elevator, glancing back. "And Dami? Chloe deserves the best version of you. Don't let her down."

Damian nodded. "I know."

The elevator doors slid shut, leaving Damian with the silence again.

He stood there for a long moment, staring at the space where Val and Chase had been. He knew they'd never betray him.

Trustworthy friends.

Then, with a deep breath, he turned toward the meeting room.

***

A/N: Looking forward to the next chapter? What will happen during the meeting?
Stick around - a new character will be revealed.