Damiano's weighty hand astride hers was like sealing his pledge of revenge into her skin. The silence which had ensued was not one that was empty but filled with the weightiness of their new unspoken agreement. When he finally drew his hand away, the loss felt then was so harsh and so instant it robbed her of speech. He stood and went to the other end of the room, putting an extremely careful distance between them. It was space to breathe, that small courtesy so at odds with his nature that it felt more intimate than his touch. He really saw her, looking at her, and he noticed the depth of exhaustion that was more profound than her tears. He did see the slight tremor in her shoulders, dark circles under her eyes; he saw broken pieces of a strong defiant woman who had fought him at every turn.

Without looking away from her, he approached the wall intercom. "Bring a meal to Miss Vale's suite," he commanded, his voice back to its normal cool tone of authority yet somehow lacking the edge it had had earlier. "Something warm. And a bottle of the '05 Amarone. Now." That wasn't a request. But it wasn't meant for him. It was for her. It was an act of particular care, done in the only language he knew: absolute command. Meanwhile, the room fell into an odd hush. It was not the oppressive, watchful silence they had shared before. It was more fragile, more human. "Betrayal is a unique poison," he suddenly said, his back to her as he gazed out the window. "It doesn't kill you outright. It seeps into your blood, makes you question everything you thought was real." He turned his head slightly, his profile etched against the city lights. "Vecchio taught me how to shoot my first rifle. He was my father's most trusted friend."

It was a tiny chink in his armor, a slight sliver of personal history given with no intent for a reply. Astounding revelation. This betrayal was not purely a business one; it was familial. It was a deep, foundational wound, just like hers. The bitter irony twisted in Serena's gut. Here he was, sharing a real piece of his pain with her, while she was serving him deliciously curated lie. The guilt was an unmistakably sharp, physical thing that made it hard to breathe. His belief that he and she had suffered similar wrongs at the hands of Vecchio and the Falcones; he would've never guessed that she could very well represent the other chief victim of Vecchio to him. A guard entered then, bearing a tray that he set down on a small table.

It held a bowl of richness and steam above lying as well as a crusty loaf of bread, dark red wine Damiano had ordered. The guard melted away leaving behind no sound or trace with which he came. "Eat," Damiano said, gesturing to the tray. Not an invitation. Serena had no choice but to move to the table and sit down, knowing that it was completely pointless to refuse. She waited for him to leave so that she could enjoy a little privacy, but it was not to be. Pouring two glasses of the deep red wine, he handed one to her and then sunk into a large armchair opposite her. He made no effort to have a meal; instead, he watched her with those earnestly unnerving silver eyes as she lifted the spoon to her lips. It was pure surrealism, doing the most domestic acts of eating under his watchful gaze. It was rich and very savory soup meant to warm her inside-out then chase away some cold dread in her bones. And she was eating in silence, even knowing his gaze was on her; with every bite, a part of the wall they had kept around each other would loosen. She was no longer just his captive. He was no longer just her target. They were something else entirely, undefined and infinitely more dangerous.

He stood finally, just when she was finished. The meal's fragile peace was at an end. He walked to the door, pausing with his hand on the handle. Once more looking back at her, his face was again a mask of command but with new quality in that possessive, proprietary gleam of his gaze. "Get some rest, Serena," he said, invoking a low, final command. "Tomorrow dawns our real hunt. Vecchio has nowhere left to run, and we'll find him." He paused, and his gaze concentrated more. "And from now on, you are not a consultant locked in the basement. You don't hunt alone, or just with Leo. You hunt with me." With that, he left, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving her alone in the silent, opulent cage. She stared at the empty bowl, her mind spinning. He had offered her food, wine, a piece of his past, a promise to share vengeance. In that one act, Damiano had extended what felt like mercy toward her. But that devil's mercy was a prettier cage, and he had just invited her to help him lock it from the inside. Her mission now lay dead. Long live the hunt.