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12
It wasafter two a.m. when Damian finally gave up on sleep. He pulled on his jeans, slipped his phone in his pocket, and walked bare-chested to the living room where he poured himself a drink. Then he climbed the stairs to the private rooftop patio.
The city was spread below him in all its dirty glory, and he leaned against the railing as he surveyed it, a king marking his kingdom. Except tonight he didn’t feel like a king.
He felt like a man — a feeling he didn’t relish.
He wasn’t a fool. He knew it was Aria Fiore’s influence, lingering like her perfume after she’d left his office earlier in the day. He’d had to leave to escape it, an alluring blend of black orchids and spice that conjured up heavy draperies, velvet and satin and naked flesh.
Her visit had haunted him, the bruise on her face making him itch to hunt down Malcolm Gatti — the most likely suspect — along with her coward of a brother. He had a unique brand of hatred for violence against women, no doubt a result of his upbringing. He didn’t need a shrink to tell him that.
But the sight of the bruise on her lovely face had called up something primitive in him, forcing the reason he was usually able to count on to take a backseat to fury.
He wasn’t a stranger to violence. Some would say it was a blight on humanity, but he knew the truth: it was a necessary evil. There was no reasoning with violent men. They only understood force.
Pain.
And yet he typically felt in control when dispensing it. Violence was one of many tools. A smart man used the best tool for the job, not because wielding it felt good but because it was the wisest course of action.
He had not felt in control when he held Aria Fiore’s face in his hand.
He had felt decidedly not in control.
It was a warning sign if there ever was one. His business required focus now more than ever. He couldn’t afford to be distracted by a woman. He was pushing away the voice that insisted she wasn’t just any woman when a chirping sounded from his pocket.
He pulled out his phone and looked at the name on the display before answering. “What is it?”
There was a brief silence on the other end of the phone before Cole spoke.
“There’s been a fire,” he said. “At the shelter.”
Damian straightened. “The women and children?”
“They all made it out alive,” he said.
“But?”
“The building’s a lost cause,” Cole said. “You might want to come down here.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
He disconnected the call and set down his glass, sprinted for the stairs. Cole would have picked him up if he’d asked, and he could easily have removed his personal car from the garage where he paid to keep it, but the subways would be quicker than either scenario. He pulled on his clothes, grabbed his wallet, and shrugged on a jacket as he was walking out the door.
He heard Aria’s voice as he made his way underground and onto the train.
That’s why I’m here. To warn you…
He didn’t believe she’d known this would happen — but she’d known something was coming. She’d tried to warn him.
There is no honor code for my brother.
He’d taken her at her word, but even he couldn’t imagine a move like this. Hitting someone’s headquarters would have pushed the boundaries of acceptability in their world.
Burning a shelter for domestic violence victims was the work of a monster.
He kept his cool all the way to the Bronx. Through the city’s underground tunnels, across four blocks on foot. It wasn’t until he came upon the emergency vehicles scattered across the pavement, the shelter still burning in the background, Carol Lewis sitting at the back of an ambulance with her arms around a woman and a small boy he recognized from the hallway at the shelter, that his blood started to boil.
A man in a blue uniform tried to stop him as he crossed the boundary set up by the police and fire departments. Damian reached into his pocket for his wallet and flashed his ID.
