11. A Dish Served Cold #2
He stands rigid, his face eerily blank. His body doesn’t tremble, his hands don’t shake anymore. There’s no relief, no regret, no triumph—just silence.
A silence too deep, too dark.
I take a step forward, my breath unsteady. Would he even recognize me? Or would he lash out, mistaking me for another threat? I don’t know. And that terrifies me.
I open my mouth, his name trembling on my lips—But before I can say a word, before I can even reach for him—The silence is broken.
A sound cuts through the stillness—the slow, deliberate roll of tires over wet pavement. A car.
I freeze.
Damian doesn’t react. He just keeps staring at the body. But I know, without a doubt, that whoever is inside that car saw what he just did and they’re interested.
The sleek black SUV rolls to a stop beside Damian, its dark windows reflecting the neon glow from the bar behind it. The engine hums low, steady, like a heartbeat waiting to decide if it should keep beating.
For a moment, nothing happens. The air is thick with silence, pressing down like a held breath. Then, with eerie slowness, the passenger-side window lowers.
A man sits inside. Sharp suit. Crisp white shirt.
Dark eyes that miss nothing. He doesn’t look surprised to see a dead body bleeding out on the pavement.
He doesn’t even look concerned. His gaze sweeps over Damian, assessing, calculating, the weight of his interest settling into the night like a heavy fog.
Then, in a voice so casual it makes my skin crawl, he speaks. “You just killed that man.”
Damian doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t react. He just keeps staring at the body. Unmoved. Unbothered. Unchanged.
“He killed my parents,” he says, his tone flat, emotionless, as if that explanation alone justifies everything.
The man lifts a brow, his mouth tugging into an intrigued smirk. Not disgust. Not fear. Interest.
“Huh. Funny.” He leans back in his seat, tapping two fingers against the leather armrest. “I was about to do the same thing.”
My stomach twists. What?
“He owed me money,” the man continues, nodding toward the corpse. “Guess you took care of him first.”
Damian remains silent. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. The air between them is charged, heavy with something I don’t quite understand, something I don’t want to understand.
Then the man shifts, tilting his head slightly. His voice lowers, almost conversational. Too casual. Too familiar.
“Where are you staying, kid?”
Damian’s jaw clenches. A long pause. Then—
“Foster home,” he mutters. “They don’t care about me. Or my sister.”
The man hums thoughtfully, tapping his fingers again. Then, without hesitation, he smirks and nods.
“Not anymore.”
A quiet beat passes, the weight of his words hanging in the air like a decision already made. Then—an invitation.
“Get in.”
Damian lifts his head. The moment stretches, unspoken questions filling the space between him and the stranger in the car. But I already know his answer.
Damian hesitates for only a second. Then he steps forward. He steps inside.
The door clicks shut.
I barely catch a glimpse of his face before the tinted windows roll up.
And just like that, he’s gone.
The world around me begins to blur.
The street, the neon glow of the bar, the blood pooling beneath the lifeless body—all of it warps, distorts, fades.
The sleek black SUV carrying young Damian rolls forward, its taillights cutting through the darkness. The tires glide over the wet pavement, the hum of the engine growing quieter, softer—until finally, it disappears into the night.
And just like that, he’s gone.
The weight of what I just witnessed crashes over me like a wave, heavy and suffocating.
I can't breathe.
My pulse is hammering, my skin ice-cold, my entire body locked in the shock of what I just saw—what I just lived. The alley, the blood, the gun in his hands. The look in his eyes—God, his eyes.
I don’t know if I’ll ever forget it.
I knew Damian was dangerous. I knew there were things about his past that he never talked about, things he buried so deep they became part of his bones. But this?
This was the night he got revenge for the death of his parents.
The night he became a killer.
The realization slams into me like a freight train, knocking the breath from my lungs. He was just a kid. A kid who had already lost too much. A kid who had nothing left but rage and grief. A kid who—when given the choice—chose vengeance over innocence.
And I don’t know what terrifies me more—the fact that he pulled the trigger… or the fact that, in that moment, I understood why.
My chest tightens. I should be afraid of him. I should see that boy standing in the alley, covered in someone else’s blood, and feel nothing but fear.
But all I feel is ache.
A deep, unbearable ache that coils around my ribs and sinks into my bones.
Because I finally understand.
Damian never had a choice.
The world took everything from him—and when he tried to take something back, it only pulled him in deeper. That night didn’t make him a monster. It made him a survivor.
And now?
Now I know.
No matter how much blood is on his hands, no matter how dark his past is—Damian LaCampanella is the only man I have ever truly trusted.
I finally exhale, a shaky breath escaping my lips.
But before I can even turn around—Hands; Strong; Unyielding clamp down on me from behind, gripping my arms, yanking me backward.
I don’t even have time to scream before I’m dragged into the darkness.