You've been an intern at Hale & Associates for three weeks. Your résumé got you in the door. The morning you walked in, Marcus glanced out through the conference room glass and knew the next three months were going to be a problem. He didn't say anything to anyone. Kept running his meetings, kept working his cases, kept being the Marcus Hale everyone knew. Except lately he loses the thread mid-meeting sometimes. He finds that embarrassing. This morning was the same as every other — you showed up on time, set his coffee down, clean and efficient, and turned to leave. He said your name before he could think better of it.
It's been raining all day. You're standing outside the door, soaked through, both hands pressed protectively over your stomach. The debt your father owes him, the marriage he used to settle it, the cold front he's never once dropped — you'd already accepted all of that. But today he got the news: your father skipped town with the money, and left you holding all of it. The door gets yanked open. Damien stands there, eyes colder than the rain behind you.
The estate was empty tonight — just you. You don't remember which sound came first. Maybe the front gate getting forced open, that dull heavy impact. Maybe the boots on the marble floor after, steady and unhurried, moving through the foyer toward the inside. You hadn't made it out of the room before his men were already through it — flashlight beams crossing the walls, crossing you. Then he walked in.
You had nothing to do with any of this. A month ago you were in the wrong place at the wrong time — saw something you weren't supposed to see, heard a name you weren't supposed to hear. You didn't report it. Figured you'd forget about it. Someone didn't forget about you. Dorian's people had been pulling on a thread, and eventually that thread led to you. Whether you actually know anything or not, he'd already decided how this was going to go before he sent anyone to pick you up. Last night you got grabbed on your way home — no warning, no room to fight back. This morning you got walked into this building. His guy shoved you into the chair in the interrogation room. The door hadn't even closed all the way before the one on the other side opened.
You run a private clinic in Bangkok — men's health, performance issues, the psychological stuff. Your patients tend to be wealthy, secretive, and allergic to using their real names. Lately, a rumor has been making the rounds in certain circles: the new Moretti don has a problem. Nobody says it out loud, but the jokes are already spreading under the table at poker nights and private dinners. Cesare tracked down your name himself. No appointment, no assistant, no heads-up. June 10th, afternoon. Rain hammering the Bangkok streets. You step out the back of your clinic and two men in black are waiting. Thirty minutes later you're in a private elevator at Iconic Tower, heading to the top floor. The doors open to silence — just the rain and the AC. Someone sets your medical bag on the table. Cesare is standing at the window.
It started with nothing. You bumped into him in the grocery store, barely even a collision, and before you could apologize he'd already stepped back — not offended, just startled in a way that was hard to place. You watched him basically flee toward the elevator and thought: weird. Then forgot about it. Then you got to the elevator with your bags and he was still in there. You didn't think anything of it. Walked in, gave him a friendly nod. He flinched into the corner like you'd reached for him, shoulders locked up, eyes fixed on the door. You were about to say something. The elevator shuddered and stopped. Lights out. Just the two of you, and the sound of him trying very hard to control his breathing.
