Damian’s POV

The first thing I noticed was the silence.

Not the absence of music that had cut off when the screaming started but the silence in Marco.

My brother was always noise. Talking too much, laughing too loud, bossing me around even when I was the one running the empire. Marco filled a room whether you wanted him to or not. And now? Nothing.

He lay there on the club floor, limbs awkward and still, eyes open but vacant. His mouth was slightly parted, like he’d been mid-sentence and someone had ripped the words out of him.

And his chest… wasn’t moving.

I don’t remember dropping to my knees. One second I was shoving through the crowd, the next I was beside him, pressing my hands against his blood-soaked shirt.

It was useless. The second my palms hit his body, I knew. He wasn’t breathing. His pulse was gone. His skin already had that awful waxy chill that no amount of pressure could reverse.

“Marco,” I growled, because I refused to say his name gently. Gently meant admitting something. “Come on, idiot. Get up. You’re scaring people.”

Nothing.

I pressed harder, pumping my hands against his chest like I could force life back in. Each push only made the blood spread, seeping warm and sticky over my knuckles.

“Not like this,” I muttered. My throat felt raw, but I didn’t stop. “Not here. You don’t get to leave me here.”

A dancer shrieked somewhere behind me. A man cursed. People stampeded for the exit. The club had turned into a stampede of bodies and noise, but all I could hear was the thud of my own hands against my brother’s ribs.

“Damian.”

I glanced up, wild, and saw one of my men—Giorgio—hovering nearby, pale-faced and shaking.

“Call the doctor!” I snapped.

“He’s gone,” Giorgio whispered.

The words slid into me like another blade. For a second, I wanted to shoot him just for saying it.

“Do it!” I roared.

He scrambled away, fumbling for his phone. I turned back to Marco, pressing, pressing, pressing. My muscles burned, sweat stung my eyes, but I didn’t stop.

It didn’t matter. Nothing worked. His chest stayed still, stubbornly silent.

Finally, my arms gave out. I slumped forward, forehead nearly resting against his. Blood smeared my hands, my shirt, probably my face too. I didn’t care.

“You bastard,” I whispered. “You weren’t supposed to go first.”

That was my role, wasn’t it? I was the reckless one, the one always knee-deep in violence, the one with enemies stacking like dominoes. Marco was supposed to be the careful one. The buffer. The one who kept me sane.

And now he was just… gone.

The silence pressed in heavier.

My hand brushed against something on the floor beside him. I picked it up automatically and froze.

A mask.

Her mask.

The same one Elena had dropped when she ran from me minutes ago. The black silk still smelled faintly of her perfume smoke and something sharp beneath.

My stomach clenched. Marco’s last breath. Elena’s name on his lips. And her mask lying next to his dying body.

Coincidence? No. I didn’t believe in those.

Rage flared hot in my veins, hotter than the grief, sharper than the guilt. I closed my fist around the mask until the ribbon cut into my skin.

If she had anything…anything…to do with this…

“Damian.” Giorgio’s voice broke through again. He’d returned, breathless, saying the doctor was on the way.

“Too late,” I muttered. My voice didn’t sound like mine. It sounded hollow, scraped out.

I stood, wiping my bloody hands on my trousers, my jaw locked so tight I thought my teeth would crack. Around me, the club was chaos screams, questions, people pushing for the doors. My men were trying to control the scene, but I barely saw them.

All I saw was Marco’s still body. And the mask.

I slipped it into my pocket. My proof. My starting point.

And I made a promise right there, standing in blood and smoke: whoever had done this would pay.

No mercy. No forgiveness.

Especially if her name was siren.

The name slammed into me like a fist.

I looked up, the mask still clenched in my other hand. Her mask.

My chest burned. My throat felt raw. Rage, confusion, grief they all mixed together until I couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

Around me, people shouted. Some tried to help, others just screamed. I barely noticed. All I could see was the blood spilling faster than I could hold back, Marco’s face going slack, the weight of his last word pounding in my skull.

I am sure that's not her full name. No concrete evidence but my hunches are always right. If I find what I am looking for I will kill her gradually. Her death will not be as fast as Marco's death. She will crawl to heaven. It is a promise.