Page 62 of Until You Break
Inside, Alessandro was already waiting, jacket still on, expression taut. Relief cut through his features when he saw us. “Good. You’re here.”
Luciana hovered near the stairwell, arms folded, eyes sharp with worry. A hush lay over the room, heavy and expectant, the air charged with the sense that something had been circling all day and was only drawing closer. Two guards near the door checked their weapons with quick, efficient motions, the metallic click of magazines sliding home puncturing the silence. Even the house staff moved quieter than usual, their glances sharp and brief before vanishing down hallways.
No banter, no laughter this time. Just the weight of everyone gathered, the unspoken acknowledgment that the city was restless and the night could turn at any moment. Together we went upstairs, footsteps echoing on marble. Guards tightened their grip on their weapons, and even the walls seemed to listen. Whatever waited above, it felt like the house itself was holding its breath, and about to break it.
CHAPTER 20
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 thecrowd 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 masklet 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.
