Page 27 of Until You Break
DAMIANO
The rooftop terrace glowed under golden lights, a square of canvas and rope already waiting for blood. The crowd pressed close, restless with anticipation, voices sharpened with excitement that felt too thin, too brittle, as if any cheer could break into violence.
Lina appeared at Damiano’s side, tray balanced effortlessly.
She held out two glasses, knowing without being told which one was his.
Damiano took it and pressed the other into my hand.
His fingers lingered over mine until our hands laced for a beat too long.
Not sweet, but possessive. He wanted everyone to see.
I sipped, the wine sharp, his mouth curving as if I had obeyed something larger.
“Don’t look.” His thumb brushed my knuckles once before he released me.
I turned anyway, chin set. “Then tell me where to look. If I can’t look there, then show me. Don’t just command.”
Damiano’s eyes narrowed, but not in anger.
His voice cut velvet-smooth. “Left rail. See how their hands hover in their pockets instead of clapping? That’s where knives sit.
To the right, their laughter is thin. Too thin.
It’s fear, not amusement. And behind us…
” His gaze flicked once. “Eyes that don’t belong.
I can feel them even if I don’t yet know whose. ”
The weight of his stillness pressed harder than his hand at my nape. He wasn’t soft. He was showing me how to survive. “So keep your eyes where I keep mine. And if I say don’t look, it means the person watching us wants you to notice. And noticing gives them power.”
I breathed, jaw tight. “Then I want to know every place I should and shouldn’t look. I want to learn.”
“Good.” His palm settled briefly at my throat, thumb stroking pulse. “You’ll watch the way I do, not the way they want. That’s the difference between prey and predator.”
We sat, the crowd pressing forward. Adrian appeared at my side with a small black bag and set it quietly by my chair.
I unzipped it and found the sketchbook resting inside.
“Thank you,” I muttered, more out of surprise than habit.
When I glanced up, Adrian had already stepped back into shadow.
Damiano’s mouth curved faintly, almost secretive. I knew then he had arranged it himself.
He glanced at me once. “Because you don’t like violence,” he said simply. I rolled my eyes, but inside I couldn’t help the thought that he was absolutely adorable for doing that for me.
I let the words slip before I thought better. “My dad never did that. He never explained things to me. He always… I think he always considered me weak.”
Damiano’s gaze cut sideways, sharp and unreadable. For a long moment he said nothing, then his hand tightened briefly at my nape. “He mistook silence for weakness. You don’t speak because you’re afraid. You speak when you choose. That’s a different kind of power.”
Then Luca vaulted into the ring, coat flaring, grin already sharp, eyes glittering with the kind of delight that made the crowd lean closer. He grinned, voice pitched to cut through nerves. “Ladies and gentlemen. You made the right mistake.”
The terrace laughed, thin and nervous. Money moved in small folds, tucked into palms. A whisper cut through the crowd, quick and sharp, gone before I could find the source.
Somewhere behind, a phone buzzed once and then stopped.
Alessandro’s eyes caught Damiano’s from across the crowd, a brief nod exchanged like a signal.
The bell rang, first fight beginning.
One fighter in a black neon mask moved with quick precision, wasting nothing.
Jab, slip inside, hook to the ribs. The other, taller, with a jagged red grin painted across his mask, clinched and breathed wrong.
The shorter pressed forward, uppercut lifting his opponent’s head.
Three exchanges later, the taller stance broke open with fear.
“The short one’s had his nose fixed twice.” Damiano kept his voice low.
“How can you tell?” I asked, eyes fixed on the ring.
“It sits too straight for his face. Good doctor. Bad luck.”
“You’re worse than the commentators.” My mouth tugged at the corner.
I eased the sketchbook out, pencil moving fast. Alessandro leaned too close to a bet, his profile cutting sharp in the light.
Sharpened by shadow and firelight. Death.
The same ruthless beauty as Damiano, the kind that promised an ending.
But behind it, a gentler cast lingered, something Damiano didn’t carry.
My hand tried to catch that duality in graphite even as the crowd roared.
Near the prep doors, a cluster of men stood too straight, too disciplined.
Not Bellandi. Not guests. They didn’t belong here, and yet no one moved them on. They hadn’t come empty-handed.
Inside the ring the tall fighter swung wide, an overhand punch you could see coming from the street.
The smaller mask let it glide past his ear and stepped inside, three hard shots into the ribs.
The taller man folded, sinking to his knees.
The round ended fast. The crowd cheered because that’s what a crowd is when it wants forgiveness for enjoying itself.
The air reeked of sweat. Glasses clinked, coins changed hands, notes snapped between fingers.
Damiano leaned closer, his breath grazing my ear. “Sketch the blood spray.”
The next bouts blurred together. Blows landed, men staggered, blood hit canvas. The crowd’s cheers rolled, but I barely watched. Damiano’s phone lit once, his thumb sliding across the screen before he tucked it away.
“Why are you on your phone?” I asked, pencil scratching lines that caught shoulders and smirks.
“Because business doesn’t stop for blood,” he said flatly. “Warehouses hit. Not only ours. Someone’s carving pieces out of all of us.”
I frowned. So whoever it is, they’re not just after us.
Damiano’s mouth curved faintly, though his eyes stayed on the ring. “You learn fast. Why don’t you sketch what you see? Not the ring. Them. Us.”
Another fight turned brutal early. A masked fighter went down, dragged up again by his hair.
No one stopped it. Blows landed until his mouth filled with teeth and red.
He spit and kept swinging. The crowd roared.
Alessandro screamed fresh odds, Luca crowed into the mic, and my hand faltered.
My pencil lines stuttered, jagged, darkening the page with eyes and faces, the crowd’s gaze sketched harsher than the fighters.
Every smirk, every hungry stare, I pressed into graphite until the page blurred.
Gasps followed the final blow. The downed man didn’t rise. A hush, then thunder, then a cleaner’s rush with towels and spray.
By the next match, the terrace leaned forward, restless. Alessandro crowed new odds, bills and coins changing hands. A rival heir caught my gaze too long, smile thin as wire, before vanishing back into the mass. My stomach turned, pencil pressing darker lines until the page smudged.
Luca milked it. “You’ve been patient,” he said, smile thin. “Let’s ruin someone’s night. Special match, no headgear. No excuses. Winner decides the loser’s fate.”
The terrace shifted uneasily, anticipation thickening into dread. Voices sharpened and cut off mid-laugh. Guards shifted near the doors, hands too close to weapons. Money froze mid-hand.
“Who signed him up?” Someone whispered. No answer came. This wasn’t routine. This was intrusion.
The tall one stepped into light. The neon mask wasn’t a full face, hard line across the eyes, sharp grin cut below. He didn’t look up. He lifted his head enough to see the ring.
For a moment the Bellandi guards at the edge hesitated, then stood back as if an order had come from higher up. The air felt wrong, like someone had smuggled fire into the room and set it beating in time with the crowd’s pulse.
Luca tipped the mic. “Wolf.”
The noise that followed wasn’t a cheer. It was hunger, sharp and feral. Appetite has a voice. Luca leaned forward, smile thin. “Tell them why you’re here. What do you fight for?”
The mask didn’t react. The man behind it tipped his chin. He didn’t look at Damiano. He looked past him.
The terrace inhaled and didn’t release. Heat crawled up necks.
Disgust, wonder, fury, one ugly laugh that died fast. Money froze mid-hand and then doubled its speed.
Guards moved a step closer, but no one crossed the line.
My stomach twisted. The sketchbook shook in my hands as every eye turned.
For one dizzy second my knees looked ready to give before anyone touched me.
He pointed. At me.