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His brows pinch together.

“After…?” I prompt.

Cenzo snorts into his drink as he brings it to his mouth.

“His baptism in blood.”

My brow furrows deeply.

“I’m sorry, his what?”

His eyes suddenly meet mine, and for about half a second, the alcohol seems to leave his system.

“Nothing.”

I stare at him.

“Vincent, you cannot casually say baptism in blood and then follow it up with nothing.”

He groans and rubs a hand over his face.

“It’s…” he exhales heavily. “Dame doesn’t do messes. I mean specifically messes like blood. He doesn’t do blood.”

Amusement lifts my brows. “He doesn’t do blood? Does he realize he’s possibly involved in the wrong hobby?”

Cenzo chuckles and shakes his head. “Forget I said anything.”

“Come on!” I laugh. “Tell me!”

He shakes his head again. “Suffice to say, despite your husband being a literal serial killer, he’s not a fan of blood when it gets messy. Splatters, drips… Blood that he can’t control or contain freaks him the fuck out.”

I go still.

Suddenly I’m thinking about the way Damiano kills.

The tranquilizers. The plastic. The surgical table. The needles and tubing and his whole meticulous setup to drain someone without spilling so much as a fucking teaspoon where he doesn’t want it.

I always figured it was just Damiano being Damiano; the uptight control freak with a stick jammed up his ass.

Serial-killer Martha Stewart.

But now I’m remembering that night in the VIP room with the Wolf Pack.

That was the exact opposite of “not messy”.

It was a fucking shitshow.

There was blood everywhere. Splashed across the walls. Smeared on the floor. Soaking into those ridiculous white couches. Bodies and broken glass and gore all over the place, and Damiano was right in the middle of it. Not killing the way he usually kills. Killing the way I do.

Messy. Violent. Completely fucking unrestrained.

And then he’d marched across that disaster zone of a room, grabbed me, and kissed me before one thing led very enthusiastically to another.

…Right there on the floor, surrounded by carnage, gore, and uncontained mess.

My brows slowly pull together.

If Cenzo is right, how the fuck did Damiano stay in that room surrounded by so much blood without losing his fucking mind?