Bullet ✔️

Chapter 35

"There's no blood oath or initiation or anything? Just...I want in and welcome?" The disbelief was clear on the newest member of the mafia.

I wasn't even sure if I was technically a member, but I seemed to remember Michael welcomed me to the family when I first met him, so I guessed I was. Sort of. If that didn't do the trick, I was sure moving in with the heir probably did. I was almost nauseous at the thought, but then I remembered Orlov.

"There used to be one, where you'd swear a blood oath to a partner in the family, then if someone found out you were a traitor, you'd both be dead, but we don't do that anymore." Damian waved it off, taking another pie for himself.

"So, you'd kill an innocent person and not just yourself?" William practically gaped at Damian.

"Yup," was the reply. Short and sweet as he broke off a piece of the pie. "Makes it less appealing to break the oath, right?"

The smile of Damian's face made it look like the oath was still a thing, as if he'd just pick a random member of his family and shoot them dead in front of William should he do something stupid. I knew it wasn't the case—I hoped it wasn't the case—but it still looked ominous. Like the man I was moving in with wasn't just all romance and smirks and sex, but more and more darkness.

The scary part was that I didn't mind it.

"Right," William agreed, a small smile working its way back to his handsome face. "I kinda liked shooting, I'm not gonna lie. It was sort of freeing, and I've been this nice kid all my life, you know, never breaking the rules, always did my homework.. Now I'm just like...fuck that! I wanna help take this guy down!"

"You could be useful, William—"

"Billy," William corrected, cutting off Damian's dark voice, sending me a knowing look. "Call me Billy."

"Alright—Billy. You could be useful for interrogations," Damian said, "and you've got the right kind of likability."

"I'm glad I can help."

I managed to get the pie into my mouth, swallowing the last piece with force as nausea kept rising in my chest. It was an effort to keep my cool, but when Damian hinted that he'd want to keep William—Billy—around for more than catching Orlov sent my stomach into a fit, and I had to excuse myself to the bathroom before the pie came tumbling back up.

It wasn't okay. None of it was, but somehow it seemed more okay to do it to get justice for dad. I stared into the mirror, the black tiles behind me serving as a lovely metaphor for the darkness that was slowly consuming me. I didn't know it then, but the path I was going down could very well ruin me completely. If I'd known...I'd still do what I wanted—needed.

Damian's office was different from James'. Where James had the matching dark oak furniture from the recurring theme of their house, Damian had a glass desk with black steel legs, black leather chairs, black steel bookshelves filled with folders that looked like case files from cop shows on TV, and a large cactus just inside the door, to the right. The first time I walked into the room, my hand swung into it and Damian pulled out two spines out of the back of it with his wicked grin on display.

"Everyone does that the first few times they walk in here," he'd said, his eyes locked with mine as he pulled them out. "But I've never helped." He licked his lips after that, and while I was angry he knew I'd do it, it was kind of sweet that he helped me.

After that first time I always pulled my hand up to my chest as I walked in, missing the cactus completely. Damian seemed to enjoy that fact.

I sat at his desk, scrolling through some email from the manager at one of the Strac owned hotels, while he sat staring intensely at me from the other side. His fingers formed a triangle in front of his stubbles chin, his elbows leaning on the armrests of the leather chair—and I would rather have straddled him than look through the complaints from the hotel.

But he wanted me to be more involved.

When I came in, I came to demand he told me where he was in the investigation; where Orlov was hiding. He just smirked at me, sending shivers down my spine at his dark, mischievous look. Then he got up, placed me in his leather chair, ordered me to read what was on his screen, and stared at me.

The email read, Mr. Strac, I would like to request more funding because our hotel needs a better chef. High end customers have been complaining about the food, and frankly, I agree with them. Then the manager went into a long explanation about why he'd need a better chef, what that would entail, how much more money he'd get in from the restaurant alone and how much more satisfied the guests would be. It was downright boring.

"I wanna know where—"

"Reply to it." Damian didn't move, apart from his eyes, who followed my movements as I leaned back.

"Reply to it?" I echoed, my voice laced with disbelief.

He nodded. Then he shrugged with one shoulder, as if whatever I sent back to this manager wouldn't really matter. "You have every right to run these things alongside me. So, reply."

I bit my lip. I wasn't sure if he was entirely correct—if we were married it would be a different case, maybe, but we weren't. And wasn't going to be any time soon. But I leaned forward towards his laptop and hit the reply-button, typing out the answer I would give, in a tone I knew Damian would write it in.

Find a chef you want, and send me their expected wage. Then I'll decide.

"You wanna see?" I raised my eyebrows questionably towards him, but he shook his head and uttered a dark, "No," so I just pressed send and heard the whooshing sound as it went away.

His smirk grew into a smile, and he leaned back, resting his hands over his knees. His eyes were still on mine, as if a magnetic force held them in place. And mine were on his as well, as if I couldn't look away if I tried.

"Orlov?" I asked, the hole inside my gut growing with each tensed second of silence.

He sighed. "Underground," he said, watching my reaction closely, "but we're closer. Kurt and Diana have two of his men at the warehouse, some other members of the family are watching his clan's every move. We'll get him."

Leaning back in his chair, I sighed, finally ripping my eyes off him to stare at the glass table in front of me. Rage was building up inside me, boiling my blood all the way from my toes to the top of my head. It didn't feel right, but it didn't feel wrong either, exactly. It just...was.

Damian's gaze weighed on me. I could feel his eyes move from my legs and up to my face, assessing me. "You look good in my chair," he stated, his voice darker and hoarse. "Like you belong."

I couldn't keep my own eyes away from him any longer. He smirked at me, licked his lips and let his eyes wander once again. I knew what he was thinking, and then I started thinking it too.

A distraction. That was what I needed, and I watched him as he rose with lethal calm and walked over to my chair, slowly kneeling in front of me. "I'd want to see you sitting there naked, sweetheart." His large hands slowly went up my thighs, and in combination with his voice it made my blood boil for completely different reasons, and I instinctively let my legs spread. I silently cursed myself for putting on jeans that morning, but relief washed over me at the fact when James stormed into the room.

I hadn't even heard him ring the doorbell, but maybe he just walked right in.

"Kurt found one of Orlov's circle members lurking around," James said, almost breathless, "he's taking him to the warehouse, if you wanna—oh...alright, don't stop on my account!"

I pushed Damian's head away from my lap, standing up abruptly, even if I could hear the disappointed growl coming from the man who was more than ready to eat me until I begged him to fuck me. The thought was still pleasant, but my mind was made up—I'd rather talk to one of Orlov's guys.

"Killjoy," Damian muttered as he got back on his feet, putting his hand in mine. "Let's go."