The Rules of the Scars

Damen stood up instantly, all traces of vulnerability vanishing in a single heartbeat, replaced once again by the cold, calculated mafia lord who ruled the city's underbelly.

"Lock down the estate," Damen ordered crisply, walking over to his desk and opening a hidden panel in the wood to reveal a tactical communications array and a matte-black Sig Sauer rifle. "Activate the interior security shutters on the lower level."

"They're using heavy breaching charges on the eastern service doors," Marco reported, tapping his earpiece. "They know we're here."

Hannah pushed herself up from the armchair, her fear momentarily overshadowed by a sudden surge of adrenaline. "They're coming for the ledger in my bag."

"They're coming because they think they can intimidate me in my own house," Damen corrected coldly, slipping a spare magazine into his tactical vest. He turned to look at her, his gray eyes softening for a fraction of a second. "Marco will take you to the safe room on the lower level. Stay there until I come back."

"No," Hannah said, her voice steady and clear.

Damen paused, raising an eyebrow. "Hannah—"

"I spent three years running from Marcus," Hannah interrupted, stepping forward with a quiet, fierce resolve that made even Marco glance at her in surprise. "I spent three years smiling while he tore my life apart. I am not hiding in a basement while you fight my war."

Damen stared at her for three long seconds. A slow, dangerous smile touched the corners of his mouth—not a warm smile, but the expression of a predator recognizing another predator in sheep's clothing.

"Marco," Damen said, tossing a secondary tactical vest across the desk. "Give her the Glock from the armory drawer."

Marco blinked, caught off guard, but tossed the weapon without hesitation. Hannah caught it with practiced ease—a reflex born from months of living in absolute, unyielding terror on the west side.