Chapter thirteen

Damian’s POV

The glass on my desk had been sitting there so long the ice was gone, just lukewarm scotch that tasted more like regret than anything else. Marco’s autopsy lay open, the black-and-white lines of it blurring into each other no matter how many times I read them. Poison, then knife. Like a cruel one-two punch.

I didn’t hear Adrian come in until the smell of his cologne hit me something sharp and expensive, the kind he knew annoyed me.

“You’re going to drink yourself blind reading that thing,” he said, sliding into the chair opposite me.

“Blind would be an improvement,” I muttered.

He snorted, loosening his tie. “Christ, Damian, you look like you fought a garbage truck and lost. When’s the last time you showered?”

I raised a brow. “When’s the last time you minded your own business?”

“That’s fair,” he said, already pouring himself a drink from my bottle like it belonged to him. “But if you start smelling like my uncle’s socks again, I’m staging an intervention.”

A corner of my mouth twitched despite myself. “Your uncle was a drunk.”

“Exactly. You’re halfway there.” He clinked his glass against mine before I could protest.

We drank in silence for a bit. For the first time in days, the pressure in my chest loosened a notch. That was Adrian always had been. He had a way of barging in and making everything seem slightly less unbearable.

“Alright,” he said finally, resting his glass on his knee. “Tell me what you’ve got so far. The men say you’ve been chewing nails since the funeral.”

I slid the autopsy across the desk. “Poison first. Knife second. Whoever did this didn’t do it alone. Someone weakened him, someone else made sure he didn’t get back up.”

Adrian whistled low. “Hell of a tag team.”

I didn’t answer. My jaw ached from clenching.

He leaned forward, scanning the report. “So, what, some femme fatale slips him a drink and then her friend in the shadows finishes the job?”

“Close enough,” I said. I pulled the stills from the CCTV feed Elena’s face caught mid-turn, mask slipping just enough for the camera to catch her features. I didn’t need the grainy picture to remember. She was etched into me already.

I saw her clearly that night.

Adrian studied the photo. “Not what I expected.”

“What were you expecting?”

He smirked. “I don’t know. Horns? A mustache to twirl?”

I shook my head. “She’s the one who poisoned him.”

“Or she’s the distraction,” Adrian countered. “Hell, Damian, she doesn’t even look like she could stab a steak, let alone a man.”

“Poison doesn’t require strength,” I said flatly.

Adrian raised his hands in surrender. “Fair point. So where’s our little black widow now?”

That brought the weight back down. I poured myself another drink before answering.

“She ran. Middle of the night. Then her friend Clara joined her later. They’re holed up above a laundromat, of all places. My men have eyes on the building. Two days now.”

Adrian laughed. “A laundromat? You’re telling me your brother’s killer is hiding out with detergent fumes and coin machines?”

I shot him a look, but his grin didn’t fade. “Sorry. Just God, that’s bleak.”

Bleak or not, he wasn’t wrong.

“And the money?” Adrian asked, his humor fading.

“Bank froze it,” I said. “Too much for her account. She can’t touch it. But her friend knows about it now. Clara keeps bringing it up.”

Adrian tapped his glass thoughtfully. “That’s dangerous.”

“Or useful,” I corrected.

He tilted his head, considering. “How?”

“People like Clara don’t hide things well. Greed makes them loud. Fear makes them sloppy. Either way, she’ll slip. And when she does, she’ll lead us straight to Elena.”

Adrian leaned back, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “So you’re saying we don’t even have to chase her. Just wait for her friend to trip over her own tongue.”

“Exactly.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “You know, for someone who claims to hate people, you read them like books.”

“I don’t hate people,” I said. “I hate their noise.”

“Same thing.” He downed the rest of his drink and set the glass down with a sharp click. “So what’s the plan, then? We sit on them until Clara cracks? Or you planning to snatch the girl sooner?”

I thought about it. About Elena sitting in that dingy room, jumping at shadows, clinging to a friend who might already be thinking of selling her out. About the mask she used to wear on stage, the way it slipped that night.

“Not yet,” I said finally. “We keep them boxed in. Let Clara chatter, let Elena stew. Fear does more damage than bullets sometimes.”

Adrian gave me a long look. “You sound like a man enjoying the chase.”

I met his gaze evenly. “I sound like a man who’s going to finish what someone else started.”

That silenced him. He nodded once, sharp, businesslike.

But before the weight could sink again, he leaned back and smirked. “So… laundromat, huh?”

I groaned. “Don’t.”

“I can’t help it. Every time I picture it, I see her crouched behind a dryer like it’s a war bunker.”

Despite myself, a short laugh escaped me the first real one in weeks. It felt strange, wrong, but lighter somehow.

Adrian grinned, pleased with himself. “There it is. Knew I could drag it out of you.”

“Don’t get used to it,” I muttered, but the heaviness in my chest had eased again.

He stood, straightening his tie. “Alright, boss. I’ll let you stew in your brooding again. But keep me posted. If you need someone to sweet-talk the friend, I’ve got a decent smile left.”

“Leave Clara alone,” I warned.

“Relax, I’m kidding.” He started toward the door, then paused. “Damian?”

“What.”

“You’ll catch her. You always do.”

The words hung in the air long after he left.

And I believed him. Not because he said it but because failure wasn’t an option. Not for Marco.

Not for me.