Episode 4: The Devil’s Wound

Morning light spilled through the glass walls of the Rossi mansion, turning the marble floor to gold. But the peace shattered with a burst of gunfire outside.

Elena froze. Shouts echoed through the corridors, heavy footsteps thundering past her locked door. For a heartbeat she hesitated—then yanked the handle. To her shock, it wasn’t locked. She ran into the hall, heart hammering.

Smoke drifted in from the courtyard below. Men shouted orders in Italian, their faces hard with panic. When she looked over the railing, her stomach dropped.

Damien stood in the center of the chaos, gun in hand, white shirt stained deep crimson. His movements were steady, precise—each shot clean, deliberate. But when the last attacker fell, Damien’s knees wavered slightly.

Without thinking, Elena rushed down the staircase. “Damien!”

He turned sharply, eyes like cold steel. “Get back inside.”

“You’re bleeding,” she said, breathless.

“It’s nothing.”

“You’re lying.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but the color was already draining from his face. Elena reached him just as his balance faltered. She grabbed his arm, her fingers pressing against warm blood. “Sit down. Now.”

He allowed her to lead him into the nearest sitting room, collapsing onto a velvet couch. She tore a strip from her sleeve and pressed it to the wound on his side. His breath hissed through clenched teeth.

“I don’t need your help,” he muttered.

“Too late,” she shot back. “You’ve got it.”

His lips curved faintly—half amusement, half disbelief. “You have no idea who I am, Elena.”

“Then tell me,” she said, her voice steady despite the fear. “Tell me what you’re fighting for.”

He looked away, eyes dark. “You wouldn’t believe me.”

“Try me.”

Before he could answer, Luca appeared in the doorway. His tone dripped with mockery. “Touching, really. The prisoner playing nurse.”

“Get out,” Damien growled.

Luca’s grin widened. “As you wish, boss.” His gaze lingered on Elena before he left, a shadow of jealousy in his eyes.

Silence returned. The only sound was the steady rhythm of their breathing. Elena’s hands trembled, but she didn’t stop pressing against the wound.

“You risked yourself,” Damien said finally, watching her. “Why?”

She met his gaze. “Because no one deserves to bleed alone.”

For a long moment, he said nothing. Then his hand brushed hers—lightly, almost uncertain. The contact sent a jolt through her. His skin was warm, his touch deliberate but fragile, like he wasn’t used to gentleness.

“Don’t mistake mercy for trust,” he murmured, voice husky. “You’re still my enemy.”

Elena pulled her hand back, anger and something else stirring in her chest. “And you’re still pretending you don’t have a heart.”

She stood, the air thick with unspoken tension. “You can keep your secrets, Damien. But don’t expect me to stop asking questions.”

He didn’t stop her as she walked away. Only when the door closed did he press his hand against the bandage she’d made. Her torn sleeve was still warm from her touch.

He stared at it for a long time, then whispered, almost to himself—

> “You’re going to destroy me, Elena Voss.”

And for the first time in years, Damien Rossi—the Devil of Naples—felt something unfamiliar.

Not fear. Not anger.

But the terrifying ache of being human.

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