Chapter 11 - The Private Wing
The private wing of the Costa estate sat on the third floor, locked behind heavy mahogany doors reinforced with concealed steel cores. It was a sanctuary Damian had never permitted a house servant—or even his top lieutenants—to enter.
Night settled over the estate as Damian led Tessa inside.
The master suite was expansive and shadowed, lit only by a burning stone hearth and soft warm sconces along the wood-paneled walls. Floor-to-ceiling glass overlooked the churning black waters of the Mediterranean three hundred feet below.
Tessa sat on the edge of a velvet armchair near the fire, wrapped in a plush wool blanket Damian had placed around her shoulders. Her hands still trembled around a porcelain mug of chamomile tea, her mind racing back to the splintering wood, the metallic tang of copper in the air, and the terrifying speed with which Damian had eliminated the intruder.
The heavy door of the adjoining bathroom opened. Damian stepped out, wearing a crisp black shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He had scrubbed every trace of blood from his hands and arms. His dark hair was damp, pushed back from his forehead, sharpening his aristocratic features.
He walked over quietly, setting a crystal tumbler of scotch on the side table, and knelt down on one knee directly in front of her chair.
"Look at me, Tessa," he said gently.
Tessa lowered her mug and met his dark eyes. Up close, without the blood and fury of the cottage battle, his face carried a quiet, profound intensity that made her pulse flutter.
"I brought chaos to your door," Damian said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "You came here to care for a sick old woman and escape debt. You didn't ask to be drawn into a war."
"He was going to kill me," Tessa whispered softly, looking into his eyes. "If you hadn't come through that door..."
"I will always come through the door," Damian promised, his tone so absolute, so fierce, it settled like a warm anchor in her chest. He reached out with a steady hand, gently tucking a loose strand of dark hair behind her ear. His thumb brushed her cheek, thumb warm and rough against her soft skin. "Tomorrow, the Moretti family ceases to exist in Naples. But tonight, you stay here. In my room. Under my eye."
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Tessa felt a shiver run down her spine—not of fear, but of an overwhelming, heady realization. The most dangerous man in southern Italy wasn't just protecting her because she was useful.
He was holding her as if she were the only fragile, precious thing left in his blood-stained world.
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