Page 72 of Ruined By Capture

Damiano's office door stands open. Inside Noah leans against the wall, arms crossed, while Daniel stands at attention near the window. Their eyes track us as we enter.

Damiano sits behind his massive desk, fingers steepled, face unreadable. He doesn't look surprised to see us. Nothing ever surprises him.

Enzo drops into one of the chairs facing Damiano's desk without invitation. The second chair—my usual spot—waits empty. I take it, my body tense despite the familiar surroundings.

The silence stretches, heavy with expectation. Everyone's waiting for Damiano to speak first, as protocol demands.

Fuck protocol.

"Melania is mine," I say, my voice cutting through the hush like a blade.

The words hang in the air. I don't elaborate, don't qualify. There's nothing else to say.

Damiano's expression doesn't change. His dark eyes bore into mine, searching for something—weakness, perhaps, or uncertainty. He won't find either.

"Fuck," Noah mutters from his position against the wall. "Not another one."

Daniel shifts his weight but remains silent, ever the professional.

Enzo leans back in his chair, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "Told you," he says to Damiano. "Pay up."

Damiano ignores him, still studying me with that penetrating gaze.

I don't look away. I don't explain myself. I've made my declaration and I'll stand by it, regardless of the consequences.

Damiano drums his fingers against the polished mahogany of his desk.

"Noah, Daniel, Matteo. Leave us." His voice is calm but leaves no room for argument.

Noah pushes off the wall with a shake of his head. "Getting fucking predictable around here," he mutters as he passes me.

Daniel follows silently, professional as always. Matteo hesitates at the door, throwing me a concerned glance before Damiano's sharp "Now" sends him on his way.

The door clicks shut, leaving just the three of us—me, Enzo and Damiano. The brothers exchange a look I can't quite decipher.

"You're sure about this?" Damiano asks, leaning forward slightly. "Antonio Lombardi's daughter?"

The question hangs between us. A week ago I would've laughed at the absurdity of it. But now...

I wasn't, I admit to myself. Not until she saved my life.

"I am." I say.

Damiano studies me, his dark eyes missing nothing. We've known each other since we were teenagers. He can read me better than anyone.

"You're sure?" he asks again.

I meet his gaze without hesitation. "I'm sure."

Damiano leans back in his chair, his expression unreadable. A heavy silence fills the room, broken only by the ticking of the antique clock on the wall. None of us are men of many words—never have been. It's not how we operate. Our world doesn't reward flowery speeches or emotional declarations.

"Dinner," Damiano finally says, the single word carrying the weight of a command. "Tonight. With her."

I nod once, understanding the implications. It isn't just dinner—it's an assessment, an introduction to the inner circle. Damiano wants to see Melania for himself, to understand what's changed me.

"Eight o'clock," Damiano continues.

I nod again. "She'll be there."

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