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<\/p>\nBlood debts in Damien Rossi\u2019s world were never paid with apologies.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
They were not settled with checks, excuses, or trembling promises whispered by men who had run out of power. In the underworld, blood demanded blood. A life taken had to be answered by a life destroyed.<\/p>\n
And when Damien Rossi learned who had ordered the murder of his younger brother, he did not want a quick death.<\/p>\n
Death was too clean.<\/p>\n
Too merciful.<\/p>\n
He wanted to take everything.<\/p>\n
He wanted Richard Hastings stripped of his money, his reputation, his legacy, and finally the one thing he had offered up like property when there was nothing left to bargain with.<\/p>\n
His daughter.<\/p>\n
Damien thought he was dragging a spoiled heiress into hell as punishment for her father\u2019s sins.<\/p>\n
He thought Cheyenne Hastings was just another glittering piece of the old-money world that had smiled for cameras while feeding off corruption in private. He thought she was protected, pampered, untouched by real pain.<\/p>\n
Then their wedding night came.<\/p>\n
And when her dress tore open, Damien saw her back.<\/p>\n
In that single second, the revenge he had built inside his chest turned into something darker, colder, and far more dangerous.<\/p>\n
Because Cheyenne Hastings was not a princess.<\/p>\n
She was a survivor.<\/p>\n
And the man Damien had let walk away was not just a coward.<\/p>\n
He was a monster.<\/p>\n
The Rossi crime family did not operate in the shadows of cheap alleys or back rooms that smelled of stale beer and cigarette smoke. Not anymore. Damien had dragged the family into a cleaner, sharper, more profitable era.<\/p>\n
The Rossis did business from glass-paneled boardrooms in Manhattan, where men in custom suits used words like \u201cacquisition\u201d and \u201crisk exposure\u201d when they really meant extortion. They controlled heavily guarded shipping yards on Staten Island, where cargo moved only if the right palms had been paid and the wrong questions stayed unasked.<\/p>\n
At thirty-two, Damien Rossi was the head of the syndicate.<\/p>\n
He was young enough for enemies to underestimate him once.<\/p>\n
Only once.<\/p>\n
He was a man carved from ice and violence, a boss who understood spreadsheets as well as street corners. He had white-collar criminals laundering money through shell corporations, and blue-collar soldiers still willing to break bones in parking garages when numbers on a screen were not enough.<\/p>\n
He modernized the empire without softening it.<\/p>\n
That was his gift.<\/p>\n
That was his curse.<\/p>\n
But all his power could not bring back Leo.<\/p>\n
Leo Rossi had been his younger brother. His blood. His weakness. The one person who could still make Damien remember a life before guards, encrypted phones, and men who kissed his ring while praying for his death.<\/p>\n
Leo\u2019s murder had been staged to look like a carjacking gone wrong on the FDR Drive.<\/p>\n
It was sloppy.<\/p>\n
Too sloppy.<\/p>\n
A panicked imitation of street violence, meant to disguise something calculated underneath. Damien knew it the moment he saw the report. Leo had not been randomly targeted. Leo had been sent a message through.<\/p>\n
It took Damien\u2019s men less than forty-eight hours to trace the money.<\/p>\n
Every wire. Every shell. Every nervous intermediary.<\/p>\n
The trail led back to Richard Hastings.<\/p>\n
To the outside world, Richard Hastings was untouchable. A prominent Wall Street hedge fund manager. A polished darling of financial magazines. The kind of man photographed at charity galas with one hand wrapped around champagne and the other resting proudly on his daughter\u2019s shoulder.<\/p>\n
He was the face of Vanguard Peak Capital.<\/p>\n
He was also desperate.<\/p>\n
Richard had borrowed eight million dollars from the Rossi family to cover up a massive SEC investigation into his firm. He had smiled through interviews while his company was rotting from the inside. He had spoken about discipline, vision, and fiduciary responsibility while scrambling to hide a decade of rot.<\/p>\n
When Leo Rossi arrived to collect the first major installment, Richard panicked.<\/p>\n
He did not understand who Leo really was.<\/p>\n
He did not understand that the man in the tailored suit was not just another collector.<\/p>\n
He was Damien Rossi\u2019s brother.<\/p>\n
Richard hired a third-rate crew from the Bronx to eliminate him.<\/p>\n
A cheap solution from a cheap soul.<\/p>\n
And Leo died for it.<\/p>\n
Damien did not scream when he found out.<\/p>\n
He did not weep in front of his men.<\/p>\n
He simply went quiet.<\/p>\n
That was when everyone around him knew the violence would be worse than rage. Damien\u2019s anger never burned wild. It froze. It sharpened. It became a blade so clean it left no room for error.<\/p>\n
The confrontation took place at the Oak Room Club, an exclusive, heavily vetted sanctuary for men who liked their crimes hidden behind mahogany and membership fees.<\/p>\n
Damien\u2019s men cleared the back room.<\/p>\n
Vincent, his ruthless underboss, handled it without raising his voice. A few whispered orders. A few locked doors. A few men deciding very quickly that whatever they thought they had seen, they had not seen it.<\/p>\n
Then Richard Hastings was dragged inside.<\/p>\n
His Armani suit was rumpled. His face was bruised. He smelled of expensive scotch and raw fear.<\/p>\n
There was no dignity left in him.<\/p>\n
Not when Vincent\u2019s men shoved him across the polished floor.<\/p>\n
Not when he stumbled.<\/p>\n
Not when he looked up and saw Damien Rossi seated beneath the low amber light, cigar smoke curling between them like a warning.<\/p>\n
Damien looked at him for a long moment.<\/p>\n
He wanted Richard to feel that silence.<\/p>\n
Wanted him to understand that every second he remained alive was not mercy. It was Damien deciding what shape the punishment would take.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou took my blood, Richard,\u201d Damien said.<\/p>\n
His voice was low, rough, and terrifyingly calm.<\/p>\n
Richard\u2019s lip trembled.<\/p>\n
\u201cI am going to take everything you love,\u201d Damien continued. \u201cYour firm. Your reputation. Your life. In that order.\u201d<\/p>\n
Richard dropped to his knees.<\/p>\n
He did not plead like a man of Wall Street. He did not negotiate like someone used to holding power. He sobbed like a child who had been caught and had no lie left to hide behind.<\/p>\n
\u201cPlease, Rossi,\u201d he choked out. \u201cI didn\u2019t know it was your brother. I have nothing left. The feds froze my accounts.\u201d<\/p>\n
Damien watched him with open disgust.<\/p>\n
\u201cBut I have\u2026\u201d Richard swallowed hard. His eyes went wide and frantic, as if some final bargain had just crawled into his mind. \u201cI have my daughter. Cheyenne.\u201d<\/p>\n
The room seemed to still.<\/p>\n
Even Vincent looked at Richard differently.<\/p>\n
Damien did not move, but the temperature in his eyes dropped.<\/p>\n
He knew the Hastings family in the way everyone in New York knew families like them. The society pages adored them. Upper East Side perfection. Charity galas. Hamptons summers. Country club smiles. Private schools. Museum boards. The kind of carefully staged life people mistook for virtue because it photographed well.<\/p>\n
Cheyenne Hastings had always been part of that picture.<\/p>\n
Beautiful. Quiet. Well dressed. Richard\u2019s only daughter.<\/p>\n
Damien\u2019s cigar burned between his fingers.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou are offering me your daughter,\u201d he said slowly, \u201cto pay for a hit on a made man?\u201d<\/p>\n
Disgust laced every word.<\/p>\n
Richard did not even have the decency to look ashamed.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe\u2019s twenty-two,\u201d he begged. \u201cShe\u2019s beautiful. Untouched. Marry her. Take her. She comes with a trust fund my father set up that the feds can\u2019t touch. It unlocks when she marries. It\u2019s yours. Just let me live. Please.\u201d<\/p>\n
For a moment, Damien saw only cowardice.<\/p>\n
A father on his knees, trading his child as currency.<\/p>\n
But then another thought formed.<\/p>\n
A twisted, merciless plan.<\/p>\n
If he killed Richard, the story would become another tragedy whispered through financial circles. A disgraced hedge fund manager dead under mysterious circumstances. There would be speculation. Fear. Maybe even pity from people who knew nothing.<\/p>\n
But if Damien married Richard\u2019s prized daughter, he would do more than kill the man.<\/p>\n
He would absorb the Hastings legacy.<\/p>\n
He would take the spotless princess raised on money that had passed through corrupt hands, and he would drag her into the Rossi world. He would make her name his. Her fortune his. Her future his.<\/p>\n
She would become a living monument to Richard\u2019s failure.<\/p>\n
Every time Richard thought of his daughter, he would know she belonged to the man he had tried to cheat.<\/p>\n
The man whose brother he had murdered.<\/p>\n
Damien leaned back.<\/p>\n
The cigar smoke curled upward into the dim light.<\/p>\n
\u201cDeal,\u201d he whispered.<\/p>\n
Richard sagged with relief.<\/p>\n
But Damien was not finished.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou leave New York tonight,\u201d he said. \u201cAnd you never speak to her again.\u201d<\/p>\n
Richard nodded too quickly.<\/p>\n
Coward to the end.<\/p>\n
Two weeks later, the wedding took place inside a private cathedral in Brooklyn.<\/p>\n
It should have been holy.<\/p>\n
It was not.<\/p>\n
It was a grotesque mockery of a sacrament, guarded at every entrance and watched by men who had done enough violence to make the saints in the stained glass look away. The pews were filled with made men, corrupt politicians, high-profile fixers, and quiet professionals whose names never appeared on official documents.<\/p>\n
Judge Thomas Corcoran sat among them, whispering with the others.<\/p>\n
Everyone understood what the wedding meant.<\/p>\n
This was not romance.<\/p>\n
This was conquest.<\/p>\n
The Don was making a statement so public, so humiliating, and so absolute that no one in New York\u2019s criminal or financial circles could miss it.<\/p>\n
Damien stood at the altar in a perfectly tailored black suit.<\/p>\n
He did not look nervous.<\/p>\n
Men like him did not tremble in churches.<\/p>\n
Then the doors opened.<\/p>\n
For the first time, Damien saw his bride.<\/p>\n
Cheyenne Hastings walked toward him like a ghost wrapped in silk.<\/p>\n
She was stunning. There was no denying that. Pale skin. Dark hair pinned back in an austere style. Striking hazel eyes fixed straight ahead.<\/p>\n
But it was the dress that caught Damien\u2019s attention.<\/p>\n
It was July in New York, the kind of sweltering summer that made stone churches hold heat like punishment. And yet Cheyenne wore a heavy vintage-style lace gown with a high Victorian collar that hugged her throat and long sleeves that reached all the way to her wrists.<\/p>\n
No exposed shoulders.<\/p>\n
No open back.<\/p>\n
No bare arms.<\/p>\n
Nothing of her visible except her face and hands.<\/p>\n
Damien\u2019s jaw tightened.<\/p>\n
He thought he understood.<\/p>\n
Spoiled little princess.<\/p>\n
Too good to look at a mobster.<\/p>\n
Too proud to show skin before men she considered beneath her.<\/p>\n
Too convinced she was a martyr being dragged from her gilded world into darkness.<\/p>\n
She did not look at him once.<\/p>\n
Not as she reached the altar.<\/p>\n
Not as the priest began.<\/p>\n
Not as the church fell into that thick, watchful silence that comes when a room full of dangerous men knows a performance is taking place.<\/p>\n
When the priest asked for her vows, Cheyenne\u2019s voice came out barely above a whisper.<\/p>\n
Fragile.<\/p>\n
Thin.<\/p>\n
Almost breaking inside the massive cathedral.<\/p>\n
Damien slid a heavy diamond-encrusted platinum band onto her finger. Her hand was ice cold. It trembled so violently she could barely keep it steady.<\/p>\n
He noticed.<\/p>\n
Then he resented himself for noticing.<\/p>\n
Fear could be an act.<\/p>\n
Weakness could be manipulation.<\/p>\n
He had seen too many beautiful people lie.<\/p>\n
When the priest pronounced them husband and wife, Damien leaned in.<\/p>\n
He did not kiss her lips.<\/p>\n
He pressed his mouth roughly against her cheek and whispered into her ear.<\/p>\n
\u201cYour father sold you to a monster to save his own pathetic skin. Welcome to hell, Mrs. Rossi.\u201d<\/p>\n
Cheyenne did not gasp.<\/p>\n
She did not recoil.<\/p>\n
She did not beg.<\/p>\n
Her eyes closed.<\/p>\n
A single tear slipped through her lashes and rolled silently down her cheek.<\/p>\n
That infuriated Damien more than any outburst would have.<\/p>\n
He wanted her to scream. To fight. To show the arrogance he had imagined in her. He wanted proof that she was what he believed she was: a billionaire\u2019s daughter furious that the world had finally stopped protecting her.<\/p>\n
Instead, she looked empty.<\/p>\n
Not defiant.<\/p>\n
Not proud.<\/p>\n
Empty.<\/p>\n
An infuriatingly silent participant in her own destruction.<\/p>\n
The reception at the Rossi estate was all flashing cameras, expensive champagne, and smiles so forced they might as well have been carved into the faces wearing them. A carefully selected handful of society reporters had been allowed inside to document the \u201cmerger\u201d of two powerful families.<\/p>\n
That was the word they would use.<\/p>\n
Merger.<\/p>\n
As if this were finance.<\/p>\n
As if a woman had not been handed over as payment.<\/p>\n
Cheyenne sat beside Damien at the head table, barely touching her food.<\/p>\n
Her posture remained rigidly straight. Her hands stayed in her lap. Her expression did not change.<\/p>\n
She looked like a porcelain doll locked in a gilded cage.<\/p>\n
Damien drank heavily.<\/p>\n
The bourbon did not soften him. It sharpened his grief. Every glass dragged Leo\u2019s face back into his mind. Leo laughing in the old days. Leo arguing with him. Leo lying dead because Richard Hastings had been too cowardly to pay his debt like a man.<\/p>\n
The ache in Damien\u2019s chest turned into a dark rush of control.<\/p>\n
He had won.<\/p>\n
He owned the Hastings fortune.<\/p>\n
He owned the Hastings name.<\/p>\n
He owned Richard\u2019s daughter.<\/p>\n
And that night, he intended to make sure Cheyenne understood the rules of her new life.<\/p>\n
The Rossi estate in Oyster Bay, Long Island, looked from a distance like a modern palace.<\/p>\n
Up close, it was a fortress.<\/p>\n
Ten-foot stone walls. Security cameras. Armed guards walking the perimeter. Long drives. Iron gates. Windows positioned as much for defense as beauty.<\/p>\n
It was sprawling.<\/p>\n
Beautiful.<\/p>\n
Inescapable.<\/p>\n
At midnight, the black SUVs pulled up to the main entrance.<\/p>\n
Damien stepped out first, buttoning his suit jacket. He watched as his men helped Cheyenne from the car. She looked tiny against the mansion\u2019s massive stone-and-glass fa\u00e7ade.<\/p>\n
Her wedding dress, heavy and suffocating, seemed to swallow her whole.<\/p>\n
\u201cTake her to the master suite,\u201d Damien ordered Maria, the stern older housekeeper who had served the Rossi family long enough to know when not to ask questions. \u201cDon\u2019t let her leave the wing.\u201d<\/p>\n
Maria gave one sharp nod.<\/p>\n
Cheyenne said nothing.<\/p>\n
Damien retreated to his study on the first floor.<\/p>\n
The room was dark except for the glow of the fireplace and the lamp on his desk. Above the mantel hung a portrait of Leo. Not the official portrait from a funeral announcement. Not some stiff memorial image. This one had been taken before everything hardened. Leo looked alive in it. Smirking, almost. Like he knew a joke no one else had caught yet.<\/p>\n
Damien poured three fingers of aged bourbon.<\/p>\n
He stared at his brother\u2019s face.<\/p>\n
The anger inside him shifted like a coiled snake.<\/p>\n
He had married the daughter of the man who killed Leo.<\/p>\n
He had legally bound himself to the bloodline he despised.<\/p>\n
He told himself it was strategy. Punishment. Power.<\/p>\n
Still, some part of him hated the shape of it.<\/p>\n
He drank anyway.<\/p>\n
The liquor burned down his throat and fed the vengeful fire in his mind.<\/p>\n
He was not going upstairs to force himself on her.<\/p>\n
He was not that kind of animal.<\/p>\n
There were lines even men like Damien Rossi did not cross.<\/p>\n
But he was going upstairs. He would strip away that arrogant silence. He would tell her exactly what her life was now. No illusions. No fantasies. No escape. She would live under his roof, by his rules, in the cage her father had built for her with his own cowardice.<\/p>\n
When Damien finally climbed the grand staircase, the house seemed unnaturally quiet.<\/p>\n
His shoes made no sound on the runner.<\/p>\n
At the end of the hall, the heavy oak double doors to the master suite waited.<\/p>\n
He pushed them open.<\/p>\n
The room was bathed in the soft glow of a single bedside lamp.<\/p>\n
Cheyenne stood near the massive four-poster bed.<\/p>\n
She had not changed.<\/p>\n
She was still trapped in the heavy lace gown, the high collar tight at her throat, the long sleeves covering her arms, the weight of the dress making her look even smaller.<\/p>\n
Her arms were twisted behind her back.<\/p>\n
She was struggling frantically with a seemingly endless row of tiny pearl buttons running down the spine of the gown.<\/p>\n
When the door clicked shut, Cheyenne jumped.<\/p>\n
She spun around.<\/p>\n
And for the first time that day, Damien saw something break through her stillness.<\/p>\n
Raw terror.<\/p>\n
Not disdain.<\/p>\n
Not pride.<\/p>\n
Terror.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2014I can\u2019t get it undone,\u201d she stammered.<\/p>\n
Her voice shook so violently the words almost fell apart.<\/p>\n
She took a step backward and hit the heavy mahogany bedpost.<\/p>\n
\u201cPlease. Just give me a minute.\u201d<\/p>\n
Damien scoffed.<\/p>\n
He misread the fear because he was already committed to hating her. Because he needed her to be the spoiled princess in his mind. Because if she was arrogant, punishing her would be simple.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat\u2019s the matter, princess?\u201d he asked coldly. \u201cNo maids here to undress you? No servants to wait on you hand and foot like in your father\u2019s penthouse?\u201d<\/p>\n
He walked toward her slowly.<\/p>\n
Predatory.<\/p>\n
Controlled.<\/p>\n
Cheyenne\u2019s breathing turned erratic. Her chest rose and fell against the thick fabric. Her eyes darted, not toward him exactly, but around him. Like she was looking for an exit she already knew did not exist.<\/p>\n
A cornered rabbit.<\/p>\n
That was the thought that flickered through Damien\u2019s mind.<\/p>\n
Then he crushed it.<\/p>\n
\u201cTurn around,\u201d he commanded.<\/p>\n
His voice was flat.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d she whispered.<\/p>\n
Then louder, desperate.<\/p>\n
\u201cPlease. I can do it.\u201d<\/p>\n
Tears spilled over her pale cheeks.<\/p>\n
She shrank away, hands lifting defensively in front of her.<\/p>\n
\u201cDon\u2019t touch me. Please, don\u2019t touch me.\u201d<\/p>\n
Those words hit something ugly in Damien\u2019s chest.<\/p>\n
He thought she was treating him like filth.<\/p>\n
Like the monster her father had warned her about. Like she could barely endure the thought of his hand on her shoulder because he was beneath her, because Rossi money was dirty and Hastings blood was clean.<\/p>\n
The last shred of his patience snapped.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou belong to me now,\u201d he snarled.<\/p>\n
He grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her firmly around.<\/p>\n
Cheyenne let out a muffled shriek.<\/p>\n
She wrenched herself forward with desperate force, trying to escape his grip.<\/p>\n
Then the dress tore.<\/p>\n
The sound was sharp and violent in the quiet room.<\/p>\n
Rip.<\/p>\n
The fragile vintage lace split under the force of her panic and Damien\u2019s iron hold, tearing from the collar down to the small of her back. The heavy fabric gave way, slipping forward off her shoulders and pooling around her waist.<\/p>\n
Damien froze.<\/p>\n
Every cruel word died on his tongue.<\/p>\n
The bourbon glass slipped from his hand and shattered against the hardwood floor.<\/p>\n
He did not hear it break.<\/p>\n
He could not breathe.<\/p>\n
Cheyenne\u2019s back was not flawless.<\/p>\n
It was not the pampered skin of a protected heiress.<\/p>\n
It was a map of long-term torture.<\/p>\n
Thick raised keloid scars slashed diagonally across her shoulder blades, unmistakable marks left by something like a heavy leather belt or cane. Scattered across her lower back were perfectly round silvered burn marks.<\/p>\n
Cigar burns.<\/p>\n
Dozens of them.<\/p>\n
Near her left rib cage, a deep jagged scar looked like a poorly healed stab wound. The skin around parts of her back carried faint yellowish-purple bruising, not old enough to be dismissed as history.<\/p>\n
It was not damage from one night.<\/p>\n
It was a pattern.<\/p>\n
A record.<\/p>\n
A massacre written into flesh.<\/p>\n
Damien stared.<\/p>\n
This was not the back of a spoiled Wall Street daughter.<\/p>\n
This was the back of a prisoner.<\/p>\n
Cheyenne dropped instantly to her knees.<\/p>\n
She pulled the torn fabric up to her chest and curled into a tight defensive ball on the floor. Her arms wrapped over her head. Her body shook so violently her teeth chattered.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d she sobbed.<\/p>\n
The words came out fast, hysterical, automatic.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m sorry. I\u2019m sorry. Please don\u2019t use the belt. Please. I\u2019ll be good.\u201d<\/p>\n
The world tilted.<\/p>\n
Damien felt the truth slam into him with the force of a freight train.<\/p>\n
Richard Hastings.<\/p>\n
The man who had sobbed on the floor of the Oak Room Club.<\/p>\n
The man who had begged for his life.<\/p>\n
The man who had offered his daughter as payment without hesitation.<\/p>\n
Damien had thought he was taking Richard\u2019s treasure.<\/p>\n
He had thought he was stealing a pampered daughter from a palace and using her as a weapon against her father.<\/p>\n
But Richard had not given Damien a princess.<\/p>\n
He had discarded his favorite punching bag.<\/p>\n
Damien\u2019s hands began to shake.<\/p>\n
Not with anger at Cheyenne.<\/p>\n
With rage.<\/p>\n
Sudden, blinding, murderous rage aimed entirely at the man he had let leave New York alive.<\/p>\n
Damien was a mafia boss. He had ordered men killed. He had broken men financially, socially, physically. He had destroyed businesses and dragged enemies out of power with surgical cruelty.<\/p>\n
But he had a code.<\/p>\n
A ruthless one, yes.<\/p>\n
A violent one.<\/p>\n
But a code.<\/p>\n
You do not touch women.<\/p>\n
You do not harm children.<\/p>\n
You do not torture the innocent behind closed doors and call it discipline.<\/p>\n
What he was looking at was not weakness.<\/p>\n
It was the work of a sadistic, soulless monster.<\/p>\n
Slowly, Damien lowered himself to his knees.<\/p>\n
He did not care about the broken glass scattered across the floor.<\/p>\n
He did not care about the expensive suit.<\/p>\n
He did not care that the man he had been five minutes ago had just been exposed as blind.<\/p>\n
He took off his suit jacket with careful hands.<\/p>\n
\u201cCheyenne,\u201d he whispered.<\/p>\n
The voice that came out did not sound like the Don.<\/p>\n
There was no ice in it.<\/p>\n
Only shock.<\/p>\n
She flinched violently at her name and squeezed her eyes shut.<\/p>\n
Damien draped the jacket over her bare, scarred shoulders with painstaking care, making sure his skin did not brush hers.<\/p>\n
He moved like a man approaching a wounded animal that had every reason to bite.<\/p>\n
\u201cCheyenne,\u201d he said softly. \u201cLook at me.\u201d<\/p>\n
For a moment, she did not.<\/p>\n
Then one terrified eye opened beneath the mess of dark hair that had fallen across her face.<\/p>\n
He was not standing over her.<\/p>\n
He was not raising a hand.<\/p>\n
He was not yelling.<\/p>\n
He was kneeling on the floor in front of her.<\/p>\n
\u201cWho did this to you?\u201d Damien asked.<\/p>\n
He already knew.<\/p>\n
But he needed her to say it.<\/p>\n
Cheyenne swallowed.<\/p>\n
She pulled his jacket tighter around her trembling frame, as if the fabric itself might shield her from the answer.<\/p>\n
\u201cMy father,\u201d she whispered.<\/p>\n
The words were so small they barely crossed the space between them.<\/p>\n
Damien\u2019s jaw tightened.<\/p>\n
Cheyenne stared at the floor.<\/p>\n
\u201cIf I wasn\u2019t perfect for the cameras,\u201d she said, voice broken, \u201cif his stocks dropped, if he drank too much, it was always my fault.\u201d<\/p>\n
Her breath hitched.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe told me you were a monster. That you would kill me slowly. That this was my final punishment.\u201d<\/p>\n
Damien closed his eyes.<\/p>\n
Something lethal and calm settled over him.<\/p>\n
The revenge he had planned did not vanish.<\/p>\n
It transformed.<\/p>\n
It became precise.<\/p>\n
It became personal in a way even Leo\u2019s death had not been, because now there were two victims in the room: his brother in the grave, and this trembling woman in his jacket, sold by the man who should have protected her.<\/p>\n
Damien stood.<\/p>\n
Cheyenne looked up at him with a fear so old it seemed woven into her bones.<\/p>\n
He held out his hand, palm up.<\/p>\n
\u201cYour father was right about one thing,\u201d Damien said.<\/p>\n
His voice dropped lower, vibrating with a deadly promise.<\/p>\n
\u201cI am a monster.\u201d<\/p>\n
Cheyenne stared at his hand.<\/p>\n
\u201cBut I am not your monster, Cheyenne.\u201d<\/p>\n
He held still, giving her the choice.<\/p>\n
\u201cI protect what is mine. And right now, I need you to stand up, because tomorrow morning I am going to find Richard Hastings, and I am going to make him feel every single mark he ever put on your skin.\u201d<\/p>\n
Morning came softly, as if the world had not changed in the dark.<\/p>\n
Sunlight filtered through the heavy velvet drapes of the master suite, casting a warm golden glow over the room. Cheyenne woke with a sharp gasp, her heart hammering against her ribs before she even remembered where she was.<\/p>\n
For twenty-two years, morning had meant dread.<\/p>\n
Morning meant measuring the silence of the house.<\/p>\n
Was her father awake?<\/p>\n
Had the markets moved against him?<\/p>\n
Had some article angered him?<\/p>\n
Had she smiled wrong at dinner, spoken too softly, stood too stiffly, failed to look perfect enough beside him in whatever public performance he had arranged?<\/p>\n
But this morning was different.<\/p>\n
The room was quiet.<\/p>\n
She was alone in the massive four-poster bed.<\/p>\n
A silk comforter had been pulled gently up to her chin. The torn, suffocating wedding dress was gone. No one stood over her. No angry voice cut through the air. No footsteps waited outside the door like an approaching sentence.<\/p>\n
On the bedside table sat a glass of water, two painkillers, and a small handwritten note on thick cardstock.<\/p>\n
I am downstairs.<\/p>\n
You are safe here.<\/p>\n
No one will enter this room without your permission.<\/p>\n
Damien.<\/p>\n
Cheyenne stared at the words.<\/p>\n
Safe.<\/p>\n
Permission.<\/p>\n
They looked strange beside his name.<\/p>\n
Her husband was a documented criminal. A syndicate boss feared across the Eastern Seaboard. A man whose name made other dangerous men lower their voices.<\/p>\n
And yet, for the first time in her life, someone had given her a locked door and a choice.<\/p>\n
For twenty-two years, Richard Hastings had worn civilization like a tailored suit.<\/p>\n
He had hosted donors, charmed reporters, shook hands with politicians, and smiled beneath chandeliers while his daughter learned to hide bruises beneath long sleeves and high collars. The world had called him brilliant. Disciplined. Demanding. A titan of finance.<\/p>\n
Behind closed doors, he had run a private kingdom of terror.<\/p>\n
And now Cheyenne was in the home of a mafia boss.<\/p>\n
And she had never been treated more gently.<\/p>\n
Downstairs, in the sprawling mahogany library, Damien Rossi was at war.<\/p>\n
Not the visible kind.<\/p>\n
No shouting. No panic. No wasted motion.<\/p>\n
But every man in the room could feel the shift.<\/p>\n
The quiet, calculating Don who had orchestrated Richard Hastings\u2019 humiliation through marriage and assets was gone. In his place stood something darker, less patient, and far more dangerous.<\/p>\n
Damien leaned over a massive topographical map of the tri-state area spread across his desk.<\/p>\n
Vincent stood across from him, heavily tattooed, broad-shouldered, and silent except when necessary.<\/p>\n
Beside him, Arthur Hayes worked rapidly on a secured laptop. Arthur was a former NSA analyst, now responsible for the Rossi family\u2019s cyber intelligence. He was the kind of man who could find ghosts in systems designed to erase them.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe didn\u2019t leave the country,\u201d Damien said.<\/p>\n
His voice was low.<\/p>\n
Controlled.<\/p>\n
Dangerous.<\/p>\n
Arthur\u2019s fingers moved across the keyboard.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re right, boss. Richard Hastings is a coward, but he\u2019s a greedy one.\u201d<\/p>\n
Vincent looked at the screen.<\/p>\n
Arthur continued.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe feds froze his domestic Vanguard Peak accounts, but I dug into the Cayman shell companies. He\u2019s liquidating a hidden asset. Private, untraceable bearer bond portfolio. Worth about fifty million.\u201d<\/p>\n
Damien\u2019s eyes narrowed.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe needs physical possession of the bonds before he jumps a flight to non-extradition territory,\u201d Arthur said. \u201cThey\u2019re sitting in a private vault in a boutique bank in Zurich. But he\u2019s making a pit stop in Miami to pick up the access codes from an associate.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhen?\u201d Damien asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cChartered jet leaves Teterboro Airport at midnight tonight.\u201d<\/p>\n
The answer was all Damien needed.<\/p>\n
He did not blink.<\/p>\n
\u201cCancel our usual collections,\u201d he ordered Vincent. \u201cPull every available man we have in the city. I want Teterboro locked down. Richard Hastings does not get on that plane. He does not take a single breath of Florida air.\u201d<\/p>\n
Vincent nodded slowly, but he did not immediately turn away.<\/p>\n
He had followed Damien through violence, expansion, and blood.<\/p>\n
He knew when his boss was making a move from strategy.<\/p>\n
He also knew when something else was driving him.<\/p>\n
\u201cDamien,\u201d Vincent said carefully, \u201cthe hit on Leo was business. We settled the debt by taking his daughter and his assets. If we slaughter a high-profile Wall Street guy on an airport tarmac, the feds will bring a tidal wave down on our heads.\u201d<\/p>\n
Damien finally looked up.<\/p>\n
His dark eyes burned with cold fire.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt stopped being business the second I saw my wife\u2019s back.\u201d<\/p>\n
The library went silent.<\/p>\n
Damien\u2019s voice remained even, but the rage under it could have cracked stone.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe man is a sadist, Vincent. He tortured her for years under the guise of high-society discipline. He used us to throw away his own flesh and blood to save his pathetic skin.\u201d<\/p>\n
Vincent\u2019s jaw tightened.<\/p>\n
There were rules in their world, even if outsiders did not understand them. Brutal rules. Hypocritical, maybe. But real.<\/p>\n
Women and children were untouchable.<\/p>\n
Richard Hastings had violated something older than business.<\/p>\n
\u201cUnderstood,\u201d Vincent said softly. \u201cI\u2019ll get the men ready.\u201d<\/p>\n
He paused.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe bring him to the docks?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d Damien said.<\/p>\n
His answer was immediate.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe don\u2019t just kill him. We do to him exactly what he did to her. We strip away his power, his money, and his reputation. We leave him with absolutely nothing. And then we let the wolves have him.\u201d<\/p>\n
Before Vincent could respond, the heavy library doors creaked open.<\/p>\n
Cheyenne stood in the threshold.<\/p>\n
She wore one of Damien\u2019s oversized dress shirts, the crisp fabric engulfing her small frame. Her dark hair fell loose around her face. She still looked fragile, like sudden movement might shatter her, but something in her hazel eyes had changed.<\/p>\n
Not strength, not yet.<\/p>\n
But the first fragile edge of defiance.<\/p>\n
Vincent and Arthur immediately averted their eyes.<\/p>\n
Not in embarrassment.<\/p>\n
In respect.<\/p>\n
She was the Don\u2019s wife now.<\/p>\n
\u201cLeave us,\u201d Damien said gently.<\/p>\n
The two men filed out without a word.<\/p>\n
Damien walked around the desk, but stopped several feet away.<\/p>\n
He gave her space.<\/p>\n
That mattered more than he knew.<\/p>\n
\u201cI have a doctor coming,\u201d he said. \u201cDr. Samuel Bennett. He\u2019s discreet. He works for me. He needs to look at those wounds.\u201d<\/p>\n
Cheyenne\u2019s arms wrapped instinctively around her waist.<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t need a doctor. They\u2019re old.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSome of them are not.\u201d<\/p>\n
His voice softened.<\/p>\n
\u201cI won\u2019t let him hurt you. I will stand right beside you the entire time.\u201d<\/p>\n
She searched his face.<\/p>\n
She was looking for the trick. The trap. The turn.<\/p>\n
Because men in her world always wanted something. They always put gentleness down like bait and waited for her to reach.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy are you doing this?\u201d she asked. \u201cYou married me to punish my father.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI married you to destroy a man who killed my brother,\u201d Damien corrected. \u201cBut I didn\u2019t know the monster I was dealing with.\u201d<\/p>\n
He took one slow step closer.<\/p>\n
\u201cIn my world, Cheyenne, we are violent men. We do terrible things. But we do not touch the innocent. What your father did to you violates every law I hold sacred.\u201d<\/p>\n
He held out his hand again.<\/p>\n
The same way he had the night before.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou are a Rossi now,\u201d he said. \u201cAnd a Rossi is never a victim.\u201d<\/p>\n
Cheyenne looked at his hand.<\/p>\n
Fear had ruled her entire existence. It had taught her to lower her voice, cover her arms, flinch before footsteps, and apologize before she knew what she had done wrong.<\/p>\n
But something else stirred beneath it now.<\/p>\n
A dark unfamiliar spark.<\/p>\n
Vengeance.<\/p>\n
\u201cTonight,\u201d Damien said, \u201cI am going to find Richard. And I want you to tell me exactly what you want me to do to him.\u201d<\/p>\n
Cheyenne stared at his open palm.<\/p>\n
Then slowly, she reached out and placed her small scarred hand in his.<\/p>\n
\u201cTake everything,\u201d she whispered.<\/p>\n
Her voice was quiet, but this time it did not break.<\/p>\n
\u201cTake his money. Take his pride. Make him feel as small and terrified as he made me.\u201d<\/p>\n
A dark, dangerous smile touched Damien\u2019s mouth.<\/p>\n
\u201cConsider it done, my brilliant wife.\u201d<\/p>\n
At 11:30 p.m., Teterboro Airport was almost eerily quiet.<\/p>\n
Rain lashed the tarmac in hard silver sheets, reflecting the blinding halogen lights of the private hangars. The sleek shape of a Gulfstream G650 waited near the boarding stairs, engines quiet, door open, ready for a man who believed he could outrun the consequences of his life.<\/p>\n
Richard Hastings paced beneath an umbrella he could barely hold steady.<\/p>\n
He clutched a reinforced steel briefcase to his chest.<\/p>\n
Inside that briefcase was his future, or so he believed.<\/p>\n
Fifty million dollars.<\/p>\n
Access to the private bearer bond portfolio that he planned to turn into a new life in South America. A clean escape. A new name. A world where the SEC, the Rossis, and his daughter\u2019s fate could all become distant problems that belonged to someone else.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhere is the damn pilot?\u201d Richard snapped at the lone flight attendant near the aircraft door.<\/p>\n
His voice shook beneath the anger.<\/p>\n
\u201cRight behind you, Richard.\u201d<\/p>\n
The voice came through the rain.<\/p>\n
Richard spun around.<\/p>\n
His umbrella slipped from his hand and hit the wet tarmac.<\/p>\n
From the shadows of the neighboring hangar, Damien Rossi emerged.<\/p>\n
Vincent walked at his side.<\/p>\n
Behind them came a dozen heavily armed men in dark raincoats.<\/p>\n
They moved like a wolf pack closing around wounded prey.<\/p>\n
Silent.<\/p>\n
Certain.<\/p>\n
Already victorious.<\/p>\n
\u201cRossi,\u201d Richard choked.<\/p>\n
Color drained from his face until he looked ashen in the halogen light.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe had a deal. I gave you Cheyenne. I gave you the trust fund.\u201d<\/p>\n
Damien said nothing at first.<\/p>\n
He kept walking.<\/p>\n
Rain plastered his dark hair to his forehead. His suit darkened beneath the storm. His expression did not shift.<\/p>\n
Two of his men moved past him and disarmed Richard\u2019s lone bodyguard as if the man were a minor inconvenience. They dragged him away into the darkness.<\/p>\n
Richard\u2019s breathing grew frantic.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou did give me Cheyenne,\u201d Damien said at last.<\/p>\n
He stopped inches from the trembling billionaire.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd on our wedding night, I discovered the masterpiece of your fatherhood on her back.\u201d<\/p>\n
Richard\u2019s eyes widened.<\/p>\n
There it was.<\/p>\n
Not remorse.<\/p>\n
Fear.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe was unruly,\u201d Richard stammered. \u201cYou have to understand the pressure of my business\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
Damien\u2019s fist connected with Richard\u2019s jaw.<\/p>\n
The sound cracked through the rain.<\/p>\n
Richard collapsed onto the wet tarmac, spitting blood and teeth.<\/p>\n
Damien crouched beside him and grabbed him by the collar of his soaked cashmere coat.<\/p>\n
He ripped the steel briefcase from Richard\u2019s trembling hands and tossed it to Vincent.<\/p>\n
\u201cArthur cracked your Cayman accounts two hours ago,\u201d Damien whispered.<\/p>\n
Richard stared at him, blood running from his mouth.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat fifty million?\u201d Damien said. \u201cGone. Rerouted into a blind trust solely in Cheyenne\u2019s name.\u201d<\/p>\n
Richard made a strangled sound.<\/p>\n
Damien continued.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe SEC just received an anonymous, fully decrypted hard drive detailing every single dollar you embezzled from your clients over the last decade.\u201d<\/p>\n
Richard crawled backward on the wet pavement.<\/p>\n
All dignity was gone.<\/p>\n
All polish.<\/p>\n
All arrogance.<\/p>\n
The Wall Street titan had become exactly what he had made his daughter feel for years.<\/p>\n
Small.<\/p>\n
Terrified.<\/p>\n
Powerless.<\/p>\n
\u201cPlease,\u201d Richard sobbed. \u201cKill me. Just get it over with.\u201d<\/p>\n
Damien stood over him.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n
The word was colder than the rain.<\/p>\n
\u201cDeath is mercy. Cheyenne wanted you to feel small. She wanted you to feel terrified.\u201d<\/p>\n
Damien snapped his fingers.<\/p>\n
Two massive enforcers stepped forward and hauled Richard to his feet. They stripped away his expensive coat. His watch. His phone. Every symbol of who he thought he was.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe Russian Syndicate in Brighton Beach fronted you ten million dollars last year, didn\u2019t they?\u201d Damien asked.<\/p>\n
Richard froze.<\/p>\n
\u201cI just got off the phone with their boss,\u201d Damien said. \u201cI told him exactly where to find you. And I told him you no longer have my protection.\u201d<\/p>\n
Richard screamed.<\/p>\n
It was not anger.<\/p>\n
It was pure horror.<\/p>\n
Damien\u2019s men zip-tied his wrists behind his back and dragged him toward an unmarked van waiting in the shadows.<\/p>\n
\u201cTell the Russians to take their time,\u201d Damien ordered Vincent. \u201cAnd leave him alive for the feds when they\u2019re done.\u201d<\/p>\n
Richard\u2019s screams followed him across the tarmac.<\/p>\n
Damien turned away without a second glance.<\/p>\n
The debt for Leo\u2019s life had finally been paid.<\/p>\n
Truly paid.<\/p>\n
But as Damien climbed into his SUV and headed back toward Oyster Bay, his thoughts were not on Leo.<\/p>\n
Not on the money.<\/p>\n
Not on power.<\/p>\n
They were on the woman waiting at home.<\/p>\n
The storm had passed by the time Damien returned to the estate.<\/p>\n
The grounds were wet and gleaming under the night lights. Water dripped from the trees. The guards at the gate stepped aside without speaking.<\/p>\n
Damien walked quietly up the grand staircase.<\/p>\n
For the first time in years, the house did not feel like a fortress built to defend power.<\/p>\n
It felt like a place that needed to protect someone.<\/p>\n
He pushed open the doors to the master suite.<\/p>\n
Cheyenne sat by the large bay window overlooking the manicured grounds. She wore a soft silk robe, her dark hair falling in loose waves over her shoulders.<\/p>\n
Dr. Samuel Bennett had come and gone, leaving medical-grade salves and proper pain management for injuries Cheyenne had been forced to live with in silence.<\/p>\n
She turned when Damien entered.<\/p>\n
Her eyes searched his face.<\/p>\n
He did not speak immediately.<\/p>\n
He crossed to a small table, poured a single glass of bourbon, and sat in the armchair opposite her.<\/p>\n
He looked exhausted now.<\/p>\n
The hunt was over.<\/p>\n
The adrenaline had burned down.<\/p>\n
Only the weight remained\u2014the crown, the blood, the choices, the violence done and the violence still owed to memory.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s over,\u201d Damien said softly.<\/p>\n
Cheyenne\u2019s hands tightened in her lap.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe has no money. He has no firm. He is currently locked in a warehouse with the very people he owes money to. Tomorrow morning, the FBI will publicly indict him for massive fraud.\u201d<\/p>\n
He paused.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe will spend the rest of his miserable life rotting in a federal supermax facility if he survives the night.\u201d<\/p>\n
Cheyenne closed her eyes.<\/p>\n
The breath that left her body was long and shuddering.<\/p>\n
For the first time in her memory, the invisible weight of her father\u2019s impending rage lifted from her chest.<\/p>\n
No more waiting for the door to open.<\/p>\n
No more wondering which version of him would come home.<\/p>\n
No more high collars in summer heat.<\/p>\n
No more smiling for cameras beside the man who hurt her.<\/p>\n
Tears slipped down her cheeks.<\/p>\n
But they were not fear.<\/p>\n
They were relief so deep it hurt.<\/p>\n
She stood slowly and crossed the plush carpet.<\/p>\n
Damien looked up at her, expecting her to stop at a distance. To retreat now that the immediate danger was gone. To ask for the lawyers, the money, the keys, the name of a country far enough away to forget all of this.<\/p>\n
He had already prepared himself for it.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou can leave tomorrow, Cheyenne,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
His voice was unusually strained.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe marriage was forced. I can have my lawyers annul it quietly. You have fifty million dollars in a clean trust. You can go anywhere in the world.\u201d<\/p>\n
He swallowed.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou are finally free.\u201d<\/p>\n
Cheyenne looked down at him.<\/p>\n
At the dangerous man everyone feared.<\/p>\n
At the mafia boss who had married her as a weapon, then knelt beside her on the floor. At the man who had seen her scars and changed the target of his vengeance. At the monster who did not hide what he was, while the \u201ccivilized\u201d men in her life had hidden cruelty behind cufflinks, charity boards, and polished speeches.<\/p>\n
She did not run.<\/p>\n
She lowered herself slowly onto the edge of the armchair beside him.<\/p>\n
Then she reached out and gently touched the bruised knuckles of his right hand.<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t want to leave,\u201d she whispered.<\/p>\n
Damien\u2019s breath caught.<\/p>\n
Cheyenne\u2019s hazel eyes met his.<\/p>\n
\u201cMy whole life, I was surrounded by men in expensive suits who called themselves civilized,\u201d she said. \u201cBut they were the real monsters.\u201d<\/p>\n
Her fingers remained against his hand.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou don\u2019t hide what you are, Damien. But you kept me safe.\u201d<\/p>\n
For a moment, Damien said nothing.<\/p>\n
Then he lifted his hand and cupped her cheek with a gentleness that looked almost impossible on him.<\/p>\n
His thumb wiped away a tear.<\/p>\n
\u201cMy world is dark, Cheyenne,\u201d he said. \u201cIt is dangerous.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI know the dark,\u201d she replied.<\/p>\n
She leaned into his touch, and something fierce and protective ignited in her chest.<\/p>\n
\u201cBut I think with you, I might finally not be afraid of it.\u201d<\/p>\n
Damien pulled her carefully into his lap, mindful of every healing bruise, every scar, every place pain had lived on her body too long.<\/p>\n
He held her against his chest without pressing against her back.<\/p>\n
He buried his face in her hair.<\/p>\n
The marriage had begun as a cruel pact of revenge.<\/p>\n
A transaction born from blood debt, cowardice, and grief.<\/p>\n
But somewhere between the torn dress, the scars, the truth, and the storm over Teterboro, it had become something else.<\/p>\n
Not soft.<\/p>\n
Not innocent.<\/p>\n
Not easy.<\/p>\n
Something forged in the fire of shared trauma and absolute retribution.<\/p>\n
Two broken pieces from a violent world, fitting together in a way neither of them had expected.<\/p>\n
As the first pale edge of sunrise began to touch the fortress of the Rossi estate, Damien held his wife and understood one thing with absolute certainty.<\/p>\n
Heaven help the man who ever tried to hurt Cheyenne Rossi again.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Blood debts in Damien Rossi\u2019s world were never paid with apologies. They were not settled with checks, excuses, or trembling promises whispered by men who had run out of power. … <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":3731,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-3730","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-reddit-story"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/redditlovers.live\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3730","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/redditlovers.live\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/redditlovers.live\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/redditlovers.live\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/redditlovers.live\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=3730"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/redditlovers.live\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3730\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3732,"href":"https:\/\/redditlovers.live\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3730\/revisions\/3732"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/redditlovers.live\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/3731"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/redditlovers.live\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=3730"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/redditlovers.live\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=3730"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/redditlovers.live\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=3730"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}