"You're quiet, Damian."

Sofia stood at the head of the meeting room's glass table, her honey skin warmly glowing under the soft light.

Damian leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping idly against the armrests. He had rolled up his sleeves to the elbows, revealing muscular forearms that flexed with each movement.

"I'm listening," he replied evenly.

Sofia's coffee-brown eyes narrowed. "You don't usually just listen. You observe. Then you act. What's holding you back?"

His lips curled into a smirk. "Maybe I'm waiting for something worth acting on."

A low chuckle came from Angelo Lucciano across the table. The mafia boss leaned back, and his dark eyes glimmered with amusement.

"When Damian moves, he moves fast," Angelo said, his Italian accent curling around the words like smoke. "But patience, ragazzo, has never been your strong suit."

Damian turned his head just enough to glance at Angelo. "Patience isn't the problem. Delays are."

Angelo raised his espresso cup in a mock salute. "Fair enough."

The mafia boss's recommendation of sleek Italian furnishings made the room feel like a private salon for power players. The sharp surfaces reflected the decisions that could change—or end—lives.

Sofia flipped open her tablet and plugged a cord into it so the television screen mirrored hers on the wall facing them. She nodded toward Angelo. "Mister Lucciano, your intel has given us some critical leads on Chloe."

"No need for formalities," Angelo said with a lazy smile. "Call me Angelo—or Lucky—since a common enemy can make friends out of unlikely people."

"Evening," came a low voice from the doorway.

Alistair Scott stepped inside, the corridor light silhouetting his tall frame. His gray curls caught a subtle gleam as he adjusted the cuff of his charcoal suit. Those striking green eyes, the same as Damian's, skimmed the room before he took a seat next to Angelo. "Let's not waste time," he said gruffly.

"Your father's a man of few words," Angelo chuckled, shifting his focus from Alistair to Damian.

Alistair cocked his left brow. "One can say more by speaking less. People listen better."

Damian nodded toward the flat screen. "Uncle Nick and Jason Zhou will join any moment."

The screen flared to life, showing Nick Quinn calling in from Tokyo. Soft morning light haloed his white-blond hair, giving his face an almost ethereal cast. His gray eyes reflected a calculating intelligence. Behind him, Tokyo Tower stood tall in the haze of dawn.

"Ohayo gozaimasu," he said, clasping his hands. "Good morning, all. And Damian, you're looking almost respectable."

"Glad to know I meet your standards, Uncle," Damian responded, inclining his head. "We're waiting on Jason."

The screen split. Jason Zhou appeared from Shanghai, seated in a minimalist office of sleek design. Graying hair lent him a dignified air, though the tension around his eyes hinted at underlying worry. "My apologies for the delay," he said, offering Alistair a cordial nod. "Shall we begin?"

Sofia straightened and tapped her tablet. "Here's what we know: Marino's been running a human trafficking operation in Scandinavia."

She glanced at Damian before proceeding. "We also know it was a joint venture with your mother, Saira, meant to expand their geographic reach and profits."

Alistair's jaw twitched, anger sparking in his eyes. "That woman's a curse, even from the grave."

Nick's mouth tightened. "It was my sister's plan for expansion, then?"

Sofia nodded. "That's what the evidence suggests."

Nick exhaled slowly. "It makes sense. My grandfather, Magnus Andersen, came from western Norway. Saira traveled there often, I recall. Likely tapped the petroleum and energy sector for wealthy clients. Damian, do you recall anything from your childhood?"

Damian shifted in his seat. "Mother took me to Oslo one summer when I was seven, then to Stavanger and Bergen. She made a point of visiting Stavanger's oil museum, teaching me about Norway's oil fund and big-business politics."

Sofia's eyes focused on Damian. "Did she say anything else?"

"No. But she left me in the hotel room in the evenings so she could attend 'business' meetings." Damian paused, his brow furrowing. "SQ Enterprise's oil service division, Orion, has a large office in Stavanger, with offshore teams working on drilling rigs in the North Sea. I've been there for business but never connected the dots."

"Is Orion originally a Quinn-owned company?" Sofia asked.

"No," Alistair answered. "It belongs to the Scott family. Saira's work in Norway had nothing to do with legitimate oil business."

Sofia sipped her water, setting the glass down carefully. "Damian, I'm working on a theory, but I don't have enough evidence yet."

Damian's patience wavered. "You have a theory. Cut to it."

Sofia lowered her voice. "I believe Chloe is in western Norway, somewhere in the Stavanger region. Marino sold her to an oil baron, but according to my Oslo colleague, we still don't know who he is or where he's hiding her."

"Do you trust your colleague?" he pressed.

"Yes. She's a senior detective at Oslo Police with solid connections in Norway's underworld. That's where we need to start."

Jason's fingers interlocked. "My daughter was sold," he growled, every syllable trembling with a contained fury.

"How do we know my wife is in Norway?" Damian asked.

Sofia tapped her tablet. The big screen projected a grainy photograph of a cruise ship docked at a busy port. The name Viking was partially visible on its hull.

"This ship transported Chloe out of Lester Harbor," she explained. "We obtained security camera footage of her with a man walking to a room. That was the only footage where she was identifiable."

Damian's teeth gritted. "Where was the ship headed for?"

"It routed through Denmark and into Kristiansand in southern Norway. Chloe was moved inland from there, most likely to Oslo first."

Angelo set his espresso cup aside. "What do you know about the buyer?"

"That's where the trail goes cold," Sofia admitted. "Marino's clients are exclusively high-net-worth people who value privacy above all else. Chloe's sale would've fetched a fortune. She's likely being held by someone who can keep her isolated—and hidden."

Damian's clenched knuckles whitened. "And Marino?"

Sofia shook her head. "Still in Scandinavia, but his exact location is unknown. He moves frequently and keeps a tight circle of protection."

"I'm going to kill him," Damian muttered under his breath.

"Well," she said dryly, "I'd prefer you not say that in front of a federal agent. My badge only stretches so far."

She showed another photograph on the screen. "My Oslo colleague emailed this to me."

Damian's eyes widened: a hurried, scrawled message on a crumpled napkin.

Sofia Hahn, Federal Police Lester Harbor.

Tell Damian I'm alive.

Chloe

His stomach hollowed at the sight of her name. "That's her handwriting."

Sofia gave a solemn nod. "A local woman handed this to the Oslo police. She claimed Chloe gave it to her in secret at a restaurant before a man came out of the restroom, calling her 'Nora.' The police filed the report but didn't act until I intervened."

Alistair steepled his fingers. "And this witness? Anything else she noticed?"

"Not much," Sofia said. "She was adamant that Chloe seemed terrified. We believe she's traveling under a fake identity and a forged passport."

Nick straightened his back."Damian, you'll need boots on the ground. I have a distant relative, Billy Quinn, who's tied to Norway's underworld. If anyone can sniff out an oil baron or force answers from local contacts, it's him."

Damian's gaze sharpened. "Set it up. I'll meet him."

Nick's gray eyes narrowed slightly. "He'll prepare you for the worst. He's no saint, but you need his expertise."

Alistair adjusted his cuffs. "For appearances, we'll announce Damian's taking an extended leave—some luxurious cruising. Meanwhile, a lookalike decoy will be yachting in Monaco to mislead paparazzi."

Nick offered a faint grin. "And from my end, I'll arrange a temp VP in Tokyo to keep SQ Enterprise running smoothly."

Sofia turned off her tablet. "I'll go with Damian to Oslo. My contact is waiting there."

Angelo's dark eyes gleamed. "My nephew, Chase, can fly you—private plane, no official flight plan. In and out quietly."

Jason leaned forward slightly. "Damian, I have a reliable contact in Stavanger. He'll provide extra support if needed."

Damian rose slowly. Tension radiated through his shoulders, but renewed willpower sparked in his eyes.

"Tomorrow, we begin."

***

Damian stood by the large window, staring at Lester Harbor's city lights. The penthouse suite smelled faintly of the fresh cologne he'd put on earlier. He ran a hand through his hair, forcing himself to focus. Chloe's hurried words on the napkin etched into his mind.

She wasn't just asking for help.

She dared him to find her.

And he would.

He pictured Chloe—her smile, the way her eyes lit up when she teased him, the memory of her gentle laughter. Then, the horror of that note on the cabin mantle, the fingertip, and Mike's message. He swallowed, his chest aching. She was out there with some twisted man who considered her as his property.

Not for much longer.

He grabbed his phone and scrolled through a new email from Alistair confirming the "Damian decoy." A hired lookalike would fly to Monaco tonight to divert the paparazzi and Marino.

Good. Let them chase illusions.

He stared at his reflection in the window: tousled hair, eagle eyes, and a faint stubble along his jaw. He was moving forward, forging a path straight into the heart of the Nordic underworld.

No more self-pity.

A faint knock sounded at the door. Chase poked his head in, his wavy chestnut hair framing a friendly grin. "Got a minute?"

"Sure," Damian said.

Chase stepped in, hands in his pockets. "Val told me the meeting's over. Just wanted to say I'm proud of you, man. I see your ambition's already taking over."

Damian shrugged, swallowing the knot in his throat. "I'm done letting my grief own me."

"Yeah. So, I'll fly you and Sofia out quietly before midnight tomorrow. I've got a plane in a private hangar and a few friends at Oslo airport. No flight plan in your name."

Damian exhaled, relief flooding him. "Thanks, Chase. I appreciate it."

"Hey, man. We might've been rivals once, but we're family now."

For a moment, neither spoke. Then Damian nodded. "I owe you."

"Just bring her home. That'll be thanks enough." Chase clapped him on the shoulder and slipped out.

Alone again, Damian glanced at the gleaming bar where the bourbon sat untouched.

Not tonight, not ever again.

***

The late-night pharmacy smelled like antiseptic and cheap perfume. Damian moved straight to the counter, tapping his fingers against the glass as he scanned the shelves.

Paracetamol. Yet, he took one step toward the controlled prescriptions section. The urge was there—paracetamol with codeine.

His old habit.

The thing had numbed the worst of his headaches and the pain in his heart, making his lonely nights bearable.

He exhaled sharply, grabbing the packet of the regular tablets instead.

His eyes flicked to a row of hair dye boxes, each featuring a glossy model. One particular box caught his attention: Ebony Brown, showed the image of a man with thick, dark hair.

He reached for it.

"I need colored contact lenses. For fashion, no prescription," he said to the pharmacist at the counter. "Brown. One-month supply."

Minutes later, he walked out with a paper bag in hand.

Back home, Damian stood before the bathroom mirror in a black T-shirt as he squeezed the dye into his gloved palm. The chemical scent filled the air as he ran the dye through his hair, coating every strand and erasing the last traces of gold.

Nearly one hour later, the shower water ran black at his feet. Steam curled around him as he wiped the mirror with his palm, revealing a stranger.

Dark hair. Brown eyes.

Skin still sun-bronzed from weekends surfing. The same chiseled jaw, straight nose, and high cheekbones. But... harder to recognize. Harder to track.

Good.

Damian exhaled, gripping the edges of the sink. His old self was dead weight—a grieving billionaire drowning in excess, in distraction, in a bottle. That man had no place in what was coming.

He had clarity now—a mission.

***
A/N: What are your thoughts on Damian's new look? Do you prefer blonds, brunettes, or both?