PlotlumeDamian had frozen my black card in Milan again.
He'd locked every one of my family spending privileges, just like that.
It was the third time.
I didn't call his secretary for an explanation. I took a screenshot of the freeze notice and posted it to my private Instagram.
A second later, my red-haired bodyguard, who'd spent years in underground casinos and had been divorced six times, sent me a DM:
[Boss, in my experience, something's off. If you still want to marry this Mafia heir, swallow your pride and beg him to unlock the card. If you don't, go straight down to his private interrogation room. And remember to chamber a round and hit record.]
My hands and feet went cold.
I went down to the basement and found Damian sitting in the interrogation chair, cleaning a suppressor.
There was nothing unusual in the room. No prisoner.
I was about to relax and tell myself I was making something out of nothing.
Then I looked up again, and my heart sank. When Damian left that morning, there had been no scratch on his neck.
And he was left-handed. Now he was holding the gun in his right...
1
I gripped the strap of my bag and went down the iron stairs.
My heels rang on the steel treads.
I walked up to Damian and held up my phone.
The red text of the freeze notice stung my eyes.
"Damian, why is my black card locked again?"
"That's the third time this month!"
"What exactly are you guarding against?"
Damian stopped cleaning the barrel.
He looked up at me and sighed.
"Sera, can you please stop assuming the worst about me?"
"The family's financial system was hacked yesterday."
"I had tech lock the cards temporarily to protect your money."
"Can't you give me even that much trust?"
I pushed down the agitation in my chest and pulled out the metal chair beside him to sit.
My eyes went to the red mark on his neck.
Then to the right hand holding the cleaning cloth.
"And your hand?"
"You're left-handed. Why are you holding the gun in your right today?"
"And that scratch on your neck wasn't there this morning!"
"Did the hackers do that too?"
Damian set the suppressor on the table.
He pulled open his collar and showed me the bloody mark on his neck.
"I was testing a new gun at the range this morning. The recoil was so bad it sprained my left wrist."
"As for this scratch, the hound got me while I was giving him a bath."
"Sera, do I have to file a report every time I wash the dog?"
I turned to look at the corner of the basement.
A Doberman with a wet coat sat in an iron cage.
The dog was wagging its tail at Damian.
On a medical tray beside the cage lay half a bottle of liniment and some cotton swabs.
Every piece of evidence fit.
I looked down at my fingers, my nails digging into my skin.
Damian rose from the interrogation chair.
He came over and knelt on one knee on the concrete in front of me.
He reached out with his right hand, pried apart my clenched fingers and pulled me into his arms.
He rested his chin on top of my head and patted my back with his right hand.
"Baby, you're shaking all over."
"Is your PTSD acting up again?"
"Look at me. There are no bad guys here, and I haven't betrayed you."
He pulled me to my feet by the hand and led me to a hidden alcove at the back of the interrogation room.
He flipped a switch on the wall and turned on a UV light.
The floor of the alcove was spotless, and the rack of instruments was empty.
"See? There's nothing here."
"What conspiracy theories have your bodyguard friends been filling your head with this time?"
"Can you relax now?"
I looked at the empty alcove, and my shoulders sagged.
"I'm sorry, Damian."
"I've been having nightmares lately."