Next second.

Damien reached for a thick folder on his mahogany desk and hurled it across the room. The documents struck the marble floor with a heavy, jarring slap that echoed through the silence like a gunshot.

"Get one thing straight before we continue, Leonid," Damien said, his thin lips barely moving. "I have very little patience for people who lie to me in this house."

Leonid began to tremble. The rumors were true—the Sovereign was a man of shifting tides, unreadable and absolute.

Damien reached for his hexagonal crystal glass and took a slow, methodical sip of water. The flash of lethal violence vanished as quickly as it had arrived. Within a heartbeat, he returned to his state of languid indifference, his voice a low, sexy drawl.

"What was their price?"

"F—five million dollars," Leonid stammered, his voice breaking. "They... they said they'd get me to the States. That I'd never have to look back."

Damien let out a short, quiet laugh. "And let me guess—did they also tell you that they'd call you on your way to the airport to give you the coordinates for the drop-off?"

Leonid's eyes went wide. "...How did you know?"

Damien's gaze remained bored. He set the glass down and turned his laptop screen toward the boy. On the display, a high-definition surveillance feed showed Gideon meticulously inspecting the underside of a black sedan.

"Recognize the car?" Damien asked.

Leonid nodded frantically. If he hadn't been intercepted by Damien's enforcers last night, that car would have been his ticket to freedom.

Damien tapped a long, pale finger against the screen. "Look closer. Under the driver's seat."

Leonid leaned in. When he realized what he was looking at, the blood drained from his face, leaving him a sickly shade of ash.

"Children are always so pure," Damien murmured, his tone possessing a deceptive, melodic warmth. "The bomb under that seat is triggered by a mobile signal. The moment you answered that phone call to 'collect your payment,' you would have been reduced to a red mist. You betrayed me, Leonid. The only way they can ensure no evidence leads back to them is to erase the witness. Did you really think you were worth five million to them?"

Leonid collapsed to his knees, his face a mask of profound, agonizing remorse. "Master Damien! Please! Give me one more chance! Just one! I'll never do it again... I swear!"

Damien looked down at him from his high-backed chair, his pale gray eyes flickering with a mix of indifference and sharp, clinical mockery.

"I value talent, Leonid. And in this house, I trust those I employ until they give me a reason not to. I haven't treated you poorly in the years you've served the Syndicate. You want another chance? Fine. I'll give you one."

Damien reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a Walther P38—a masterpiece of German engineering. He tossed the handgun onto the marble floor. It skidded across the stone, stopping inches from Leonid's knees.

"I'm giving you a final choice," Damien whispered, his voice cold enough to freeze the air. "I don't want to get my hands dirty. Handle it yourself."

He wanted him to commit suicide.

The realization hit Leonid like a physical blow. The legends were true: Damien Lancaster never forgave a traitor.

But any creature backed into a corner becomes dangerous. Looking at the heavy iron of the pistol, a flicker of dark, desperate malice ignited in Leonid's chest. In one fluid, frantic motion, he snatched the gun from the floor and scrambled to his feet.

He leveled the barrel directly at Damien Lancaster's heart.

Damien didn't flinch. He simply smiled—a vibrant, dazzling expression that was terrifyingly beautiful.

"...You actually intend to kill me?"

"I just want to live!" Leonid screamed, his entire body vibrating with terror. "Let me walk out of here and I won't pull the trigger!"

Damien's smile turned lethal.

"Leonid," he said, his voice dropping into a soft, devoted whisper. "Everyone in the Syndicate knows... there is nothing I hate more than being threatened."

Damien looked up, his eyes devoid of even a trace of fear. The pressure in the room became unbreathable.

Leonid's finger hovered over the trigger, but reality was moving too fast. He watched as the Sovereign leisurely set his water glass down. With a movement so smooth it looked rehearsed, Damien pulled a second handgun from his shoulder holster and chambered a round with a cold, metallic snick.

"Damien! Don't force me!" Leonid roared.

Damien laughed. Behind that beautiful, flamboyant smile, he slowly raised his own weapon.

Driven past the brink of sanity, Leonid screamed and pulled the trigger.

Click.

A lonely, hollow sound.

Leonid stared at the Walther in his hand, the silence of the room mocking him. He pulled the trigger again. And again. Click. Click.

The gun was empty. There were no bullets.

Damien's voice arrived like a low-flying predator through the vast office. "I told you, Leonid. I gave you a final choice. You were the one who didn't know how to treasure it."

Damien pulled the trigger.

Killing was his exclusive domain.

Leonid Graves took the round directly between the eyes. His body jerked backward, hitting the floor with a heavy, final thud.

Damien tossed his weapon onto the desk, his face a mask of raw, crystalline brutality.

"Gideon."

Gideon Vance stepped forward instantly, nodding with professional detachment. "I'm on it, sir. I'll handle the disposal."

"And another thing," Damien added, his voice thin and sharp with murderous intent. "Investigate everyone in Leonid's circle."

Gideon paused. "And if we find others?"

Damien's lips parted, every word a death sentence. "Clean the house. Leave no one—"

The final word was cut short by a faint sound from the hallway.

It was a soft, nearly imperceptible noise—the sound of something small dropping onto the carpet. But it didn't escape the Sovereign's predatory senses.

His rage flared instantly. "Who's out there?!"

Gideon understood. He lunged across the room and ripped the heavy oak doors open.

Standing in the corridor, her face a portrait of absolute, soul-shattering terror, was Mia Clarke.

She saw the gun on the desk. She saw the blood on the marble. She saw the man standing in the center of the carnage—his face a mask of violent, bloody indifference.

This wasn't the Damien who teased her. This wasn't the man who tucked cashmere blankets around her and whispered sweet, nauseating nothings into her ear.

This was a stranger. This was the Monster.