Chapter 2 - Sleeping in the Dragon's Den
The procedure took fifteen painful minutes. Hazel’s fingers were surprisingly steady as she disinfected the tear, aligned the skin, and used the surgical stapler to close the wound. Damian didn't utter a single sound, though the muscles in his chest and shoulders flexed hard with every staple.
When she finished bandaging his side with tight white linen, she stepped back, wiping her blood-stained gloves onto a paper towel.
Damian stood up, pulling a clean black cotton shirt from a hidden wardrobe behind his bookshelf, pulling it over his head with a low wince. He walked over to his desk, pressing a button on the intercom.
“Marco,” Damian said into the speaker. “Status?”
“Shutter breach held, Boss,” Marco’s voice came through the encrypted speaker line. “Sullivan’s breach team took four casualties at the fence line. The rest pulled back into the woods. They know the house is sealed. They’re waiting for dawn to try heavy explosives on the main generator.”
“Let them try,” Damian replied coldly. “Keep the perimeter automated. Do not engage until daylight.”
“Understood, Don Damian.”
Damian clicked the line off. He turned around, resting his lower back against the desk, crossing his broad arms over his chest as he looked at Hazel.
She was standing near the center sofa, her body swaying slightly. The adrenaline that had carried her through the medical treatment was wearing off, leaving behind a bone-crushing, overwhelming fatigue. She hadn't slept in thirty-six hours. Her diner shift had started at 5:00 AM yesterday, followed by six hours of heavy cleaning here.
“Sit down, Hazel,” Damian said.
“Mr. Romano, I shouldn't... the rules—”
“The rules were written for people who aren't currently locked in a steel box with me,” he cut her off smoothly. “Sit.”
Hazel collapsed onto the soft, deep leather sofa. She pulled her knees up to her chest, her eyelids suddenly feeling heavy as lead.
Damian walked over, picking up a heavy cashmere throw blanket from his armchair, and tossed it over her shoulders. The warmth of the wool, combined with the faint, intoxicating scent of sandalwood and rain clinging to the fabric, felt like a velvet trap.
“You work too hard,” Damian noted, sitting on the opposite end of the long sofa.
“I don't have a choice,” Hazel murmured, her voice slurring slightly as sleep pulled her under. “Sixty thousand dollars... by Friday... I can't... I can't go to Atlantic City...”
Damian watched her. For four years, every woman who had tried to enter his orbit had been seeking power, money, or a piece of the Romano empire. They wore heavy perfume, calculated their smiles, and moved with ulterior motives.
This girl was covered in flour from her diner job, smelled like soap and rain, and had spent the last twenty minutes saving his life without asking for a single dollar.
Hazel’s head dropped sideways, resting heavy against Damian’s right shoulder.
Damian went rigid.
His muscle memory screamed at him to pull away, to enforce the strict four-year boundary that kept him isolated from the world. But as he looked down at her small, pale face, her long dark eyelashes resting against her cheeks, hearing her quiet, rhythmic breathing, the tension in his broad frame slowly melted.
He didn't move. He didn't pull away.
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Instead, Damian slowly reached up with his right hand, gently resting his heavy arm around her shoulders, pulling her slightly closer into his warm, solid side.
For the first time in four years, Damian Romano closed his eyes and let another human being touch his heart.
