He kissed me back, slow and deliberate, marking his territory.

When we finally parted, Marcus was standing at the edge of the booth.

His face was pale with a mixture of shock and fury.

“Is there a problem here, counselor?” Damiano asked, his voice smooth and low.

Marcus looked at Damiano’s hand on my waist, then at the guards who had closed in behind him.

He knew better than to cross the Ricci syndicate.

“No,” Marcus said, his jaw twitching. “No problem at all.”

Marcus turned on his heel and walked away, disappearing into the crowd of wealthy donors.

Damiano looked down at me, his dark eyes narrowing slightly.

“Who are you?” he asked, his hand still resting on my waist.

“Arya Bennett,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “Please help me.”

He studied my face for a long, quiet moment.

“Come,” Damiano said, rising from the booth.

He led me out through a private exit to a waiting black sedan in the alley.

The rain was pouring now, splashing heavily against the bulletproof glass of the car.

We rode in complete silence to a high-rise building uptown.

Damiano led me into a penthouse apartment with dark concrete floors and minimalist furniture.

He handed me a silver keycard and a slip of paper with an address written on it.

“You stay here tonight,” Damiano said, his voice quiet in the empty space. “No one can get past the guards downstairs.”

“Why are you helping me?” I asked, looking at the card in my hand.

“I have my reasons,” he said.

He walked to the heavy front door, paused, and looked back at me.

“Lock the door behind me, Arya.”

After the heavy door clicked shut, the silence of the penthouse felt suffocating.

I sat on the edge of the leather sofa, staring at the floor.

On the glass coffee table sat a thick black leather folder.