Page 11 of Damiano De Luca (The Five Syndicates)
Damian leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, amusement radiating off of him in waves, but I saw past the show he put on for his father. He was taunting him, just like I had taunted Angelo earlier. A defense tactic that shouldn’t have built a connection between us—especially given the way he spoke of me as a child instead of an equal—but it did. “Obviously, if you’re looking at me and we’re in this house…”
Angelo met his son in three long strides until they stood mere inches apart. “One day, I will learn what it is that you do when you are gone, and I will destroy you.”
A smarter man would have tempered his anger and hid his weaknesses. Instead, Angelo had laid his cards bare for me. The friction between him and his son and the ensuing power struggle between them weren’t for outsider eyes and ears, but here I was, an unwilling voyeur with a front row seat. Who could blame me for pocketing the information?
Damian remained unfazed. “How can you destroy me when all you’re capable of is self-destruction?”
And that was when I knew he would win. That he would always win. Calm, cool, and collected, Damiano De Luca was everything his father should have been as the head of one of the five American syndicates.
Damian’s eyes shifted to me, reminding his father of the audience. Angelo pulled his shoulders back, standing taller than anyone in the room thought he was, and left.
My eyes met Damian’s, and I wore the calmest expression I could manage. “Those who plot the destruction of others often perish in the attempt.” I dipped my hair back into the water, rinsing the shampoo from my scalp. The tops of my breasts peeked out of the water at the movement, and I was painfully aware of my audience of one.
“Quoting Thomas Moore doesn’t make you smart.” His gaze swallowed mine as I lifted my head from the water, shock at his knowledge of the Irish poet driving my actions. “It makes you unoriginal.”
“Coming from the boy plotting to dethrone his father, I’m not so sure I trust your judgment on originality. Read too many Marvel comics?” I grabbed the soap bar and ran it across my skin. “Is it the Loki and Odin relationship or the Blade and Lucas Cross relationship that inspires your every move?” My words may have lashed, but as I dipped the bar of soap under the water and rubbed at my body, I couldn't shake the feeling that I’d never been this physically vulnerable in front of another human.
But Damian wasn’t his dad, and he didn’t seem the slightest bit interested in my body. “You should have stayed out of things that are none of your business, Princess.”
Excuse me?!
Being in Devils Ridge hadn’t been a choice and being in this home had been even less of one. His father was the one who barged into the bathroom, and now Damian had the gall to accuse me of imposing? So much for kindred spirits.
If I were the type to lash out, I would have. Instead, I remained composed as I rinsed the rest of the soap from my shoulders, ascended the steps out of the pool, and stood in front of him. “If your intent is to provoke me, it’s not working.”
Water dripped from my naked flesh, but his eyes never wavered from mine. “I have no intent when it comes to you. You are a pest. A flea. Nothing more than a common house fly. Something that is beneath me to swat at. The door will remain open, and you’ll eventually fly away. But until then, stay away from me and stay out of my business.” Condescension was an ugly look on anyone but him. He stepped closer. “I wouldn’t want to accidentally hurt you, Princess.”
The air chilled my wet skin as it brushed against me. Or maybe it was his words that chilled me. That lasted for about a second before his father’s voice boomed in the background as he yelled at one of the poor staff members in the opposite wing of the house.
Myriad emotions ran through Damian’s eyes before he filtered them out. It didn’t matter, though. The damage had been done. I’d seen the emotions, and rather than latching onto the moment of vulnerability like a vulture clutching onto a dead carcass, I saw a kindred spirit I wanted to help.
A damsel that needed saving.
I lifted my chin and measured my words. “I’m no princess.”
He laughed at me. “What else would you be?”
I thought of Maman’s chessboard and the never-ending Vienna game. I wasn’t the king, but I certainly wasn’t the pawn either. “I’d be the knight.”
“Fine, Knight.”
“Fine, Day.”
His eyes narrowed at the nickname. I didn’t wait for him to call me out on it as I reached for my robe, slipped it over my shoulders, and walked past him as collected as I could with a thin silk robe sticking to my wet skin.
Truth was, Day wasn’t short for Damiano.
It was a play on Damsel.
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He didn’t know it yet, but that was exactly how I saw him.
It should have been a bad thing, but it wasn’t.
The world might not have seen him as one, but to me, Damiano De Luca was the damsel— trapped in this gilded tower, lashing out at his dad for an escape—and I was the stupid knight in shining armor who wanted to save him.
He who tries to protect himself from deception is often cheated, even when most on his guard.
