Chapter 10 – Ghosts Don’t Knock

The sky was heavy with rain by the time Elara made it to the rooftop.

It was her new hiding place—high above the noise, the velvet, the perfume, the weight of everyone else's power games. Here, the city didn't feel so suffocating. Up here, she could breathe. Sort of.

The wind tugged at her hair, cool and sharp, and she let it.

She didn't know what she wanted anymore.

One part of her wanted to fight him. The other part wanted him to fight for her.

And both versions of her were losing.

Behind her, the rooftop door creaked open.

She didn't turn.

But she knew it was him.

He said nothing at first. Just stood there, letting the stormy air fill the space between them.

"I figured you'd find me," she said eventually.

Damien stepped closer, just enough to be heard over the wind. "I always do."

She faced him. His eyes were tired. Not red. Not swollen. Just... tired.

Something in her softened.

But she didn't let it show.

"Why me?" she asked.

He blinked.

"Out of all the people you could've hired... used... ruined... why me?"

A beat passed.

Then, finally—

"You remind me of someone I failed."

4 Years Ago

The funeral was small.

Not because they didn't have the money—but because he had insisted on it. Damien's twin, Dante, never wanted the glitz. Never cared for legacy or bloodlines or mafia kingdoms.

He just wanted out.

And Damien had tried to give him that.

But the world didn't work like that.

Not when your last name was DeLuca.

Damien stood in the back, dressed in black, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, jaw clenched so tight he could barely breathe.

His mother cried quietly beside him. Everyone else just watched.

Whispers trailed through the graveyard like smoke.

"Such a waste..."

"He was the good one."

"I heard he tried to run…"

"He was never like Damien."

They weren't wrong.

Dante had been light where Damien was shadow. He painted, sang badly, spent too much time with street kids who had nothing. He refused to go near a gun.

He believed in second chances.

In softness.

In leaving.

But leaving the DeLuca name came with a price.

And the man who collected was ruthless.

Damien had warned him. Told him over and over that walking away wasn't simple.

But Dante had smiled, like always. "You're too afraid to hope."

"No," Damien had said. "I'm just not stupid."

Dante had laughed. "We were born into the same fire, Damien. You let it consume you. I climbed out."

And Damien had hated how right he was.

The day Dante died, Damien had been with Rafe, handling a shipment two cities over. Business as usual.

When the call came in, he didn't believe it at first.

Car accident. Drunk driver. Dead on impact.

Clean story. Too clean.

Damien knew a cover-up when he heard one.

The bastard behind it had tried to make it look like fate.

But it wasn't fate.

It was a message.

And Damien got it loud and clear: No DeLuca leaves the family. Not alive.

He found the man responsible three days later.

He didn't kill him right away.

He made him beg first.

And even then, it didn't feel like justice.

Because Dante was still gone.

And Damien was still here.

Alone. Hollowed out. And now fully owned by the world his brother had died trying to escape.

Now

Elara watched Damien like he was breaking in real time.

"Your twin," she whispered.

He nodded once.

"I didn't know."

"No one does." His voice was low, flat. "That's the point."

She stepped closer, rain speckling her arms.

"What was he like?"

Damien's jaw twitched. "He believed in saving people."

Elara smiled faintly. "Sounds familiar."

He scoffed. "I'm not him."

"No," she said. "But you wish you were."

The silence between them deepened.

And then she said the one thing he didn't expect.

"I'm sorry you lost him."

Not that must've been hard. Not I can't imagine.

Just: I'm sorry.

And it hit deeper than any pity ever could.

They sat down on a cold stone bench, not touching, but close.

Damien exhaled. "He used to tell me I wasn't cold. That I just didn't know how to be anything else."

Elara looked at him.

"And now?"

He looked up at the sky.

"I think he was wrong."

She tilted her head. "You think you're cold?"

"I think I chose to be."

Her chest ached.

"You didn't let Bianca humiliate me because you're cold," she said quietly. "You let her do it because you thought you had to be."

He didn't argue.

Didn't deny it.

Didn't look away.

And for the first time since she'd met him, Damien DeLuca looked like a man begging for forgiveness without saying the words.

They stayed there until the rain turned heavy.

Until her dress clung to her skin and his shirt stuck to his back.

And still neither of them moved.

Because this was the only place they could be honest.

Back inside, Damien handed her a dry hoodie from the staff closet.

It was massive on her. Smelled like him.

She wore it anyway.

And he didn't comment.

Didn't try to touch her.

Didn't ruin it.

She walked beside him down the hallway like something had shifted — not fixed, not resolved, just shifted.

He stopped outside her door.

"I won't let what happened to Dante happen to you," he said.

"I'm not running," she replied.

He studied her. "Maybe you should."

"I'd rather stay and fight."

His eyes darkened. "You don't know what that means."

She leaned in. Just enough to close the space.

"Then teach me."

He didn't kiss her.

Didn't say goodnight.

Just stood there as she walked inside and shut the door.

And somehow, that silence said everything.

Damien's Mother – The Kitchen Scene (Late Night)

Downstairs, in the private kitchen, the last person he expected to see was already pouring tea.

"Couldn't sleep?" his mother asked without turning.

"No."

She slid a mug across the counter. "Her?"

He took it. "Always."

She smiled without looking at him.

"Dante would've liked her."

Damien's hand froze on the mug.

"He would've seen her the way you do," she added gently. "Real. Scarred. Still standing."

He said nothing.

"You're not him, Damien," she said. "But that doesn't mean you can't love like he did."

Damien looked down at the tea.

"I don't know if I deserve to."

She walked over, kissed the side of his head like he was still her boy.

"Then be the kind of man who does."

Back in her room, Elara stared at the ceiling, hoodie pulled tight around her.

She didn't know what Damien had been before she got here.

Didn't know what kind of things he'd done.

But she knew what she saw now.

And for the first time, she realized she wasn't just falling for the danger.

She was falling for the damage.

Because it looked a lot like her own.