Chapter 2 Beneath the Mask

The morning after the gala crept in with a fog that curled like smoke over Manhattan's rooftops. The city never slept, but Damon Creed did. Precisely four hours. No more, no less. It was all he needed to keep his mind razor-sharp and his instincts deadly.

At precisely six a.m., he stood at the edge of his penthouse gym, drenched in sweat, muscles tense with the aftermath of an hour-long sparring session. His fists were wrapped, blood soaking through the gauze. He hadn't pulled punches today-he rarely did when something got under his skin.

And Celeste Carter was under his skin.

He hated it. Despised the intrigue. But it was there. In the way her eyes didn't flinch. In the way her voice was calm when most people stammered under his gaze.

Damon threw one last punch at the bag. It snapped on its chain.

Julian Knox stood at the doorway, a tablet in hand. "She filed her preliminary report on the merger," he said.

"Already?"

Julian nodded. "It's sharp. Impressive. And completely sterile. Nothing personal. No signature patterns."

"Because she doesn't want to leave fingerprints."

Julian handed over the tablet. Damon skimmed through her notes.

"Schedule a dinner. Private. No staff. I want her alone."

Julian's brow arched. "As a...business meeting?"

"As a warning."

---

Celeste's apartment was minimalist perfection-not because she liked it that way, but because it was easier to walk away from. Every item was curated to look expensive, yet generic. A home that belonged to someone who had nothing to hide.

She sat cross-legged on the floor, her laptop open beside her, earbuds in. The video call was encrypted, the signal bouncing through three countries.

The man on the other side had the same green eyes as her.

"Damon Creed? Are you out of your mind, Cel?"

"I didn't approach him. He found me."

"He's not just a CEO, you know that, right? Half the syndicates in Europe use his shipping lines. He runs legitimate power like a damn crime lord."

"Which is exactly why I need to stay close to him. If he starts digging, I want to know how deep."

Her brother sighed. "You're playing a dangerous game. Father wouldn't want-"

"Father wanted to burn the world. I want to rebuild it."

The line crackled.

"Be careful. There's chatter from Naples. Someone's looking for the Moretti girl."

Celeste's jaw tightened. "Let them look. I'm not her anymore."

---

The restaurant was empty when she arrived. Every chair polished. Every glass gleaming. Soft jazz filtered through the speakers, and the scent of aged wine filled the air.

Damon sat at the private table, his suit charcoal gray this time, no tie, shirt open at the collar. More relaxed. More lethal.

"Miss Carter," he greeted.

"Mr. Creed."

They sat. The waiter, clearly trained to vanish, poured wine and disappeared. Celeste took a measured sip.

"I don't mix business with pleasure," she said.

"Who said anything about pleasure?"

Celeste smiled faintly. "Then why the private dinner?"

Damon met her gaze. "Because I want to know who you really are."

She didn't flinch.

"You hired me. You read my resume."

"I've read dossiers on ghosts with more detail than your file."

She set her glass down. "Maybe I value my privacy."

"Or maybe you're hiding from something. Or someone."

A pause.

"Aren't we all?"

Damon leaned in. "You're not just a consultant. You read people. You disarm them. You predict outcomes before numbers exist. That's not training. That's survival."

Celeste felt her breath catch. He was closer than she thought.

"You're not afraid of me," he said. "You should be."

She met his stare. "I know monsters. I don't fear them."

Silence settled like ash between them.

Then Damon smiled. Not polite. Not mocking. But curious.

"You're not done surprising me yet, are you, Celeste?"

---

Back in his penthouse, Damon stood before a massive wall screen. Julian had pulled every thread. Background reports. Traffic cameras. Airline records.

"She's used five names in the last ten years. The earliest one traces back to Italy. Naples. An orphanage that burned down."

Damon narrowed his eyes. "Moretti."

Julian nodded. "Father: Giancarlo Moretti. International arms dealer. Thought dead in a raid."

"Thought."

Julian hesitated. "One report suggests he faked his death."

Damon didn't speak for a long time.

Then he whispered, "So that's what you're running from, Celeste."

---

Celeste walked the park alone, coat drawn tight against the wind. Her phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

She answered. No words. Just static.

Then a voice.

"The sins of the father will always find the daughter."

Her blood turned cold.

She spun around, scanning the trees.

Nothing.

She ran.

And the game truly began.

---

(To be continued...)