9. Lines Begin to Blur
Lines Begin to Blur
Damian
The city blurs past as Enzo drives, the hum of the engine a low, steady noise beneath my thoughts. I barely register the motion, my mind fixed on the estate we just left behind.
Nichole is in that house.
She walked right into the lion’s den, and I still don’t know why.
I clench my jaw, staring out the tinted window. I should be preparing for my next move, but the questions won’t leave me alone. Why would she go to them? What kind of leverage do they have over her?
Or worse—what kind of lie did they feed her?
The thought of her trusting them, of sitting at their table, of believing she’s safe among them—it twists something sharp inside me.
I exhale through my nose, forcing myself to focus. There’s no use chasing thoughts I can’t confirm. Not yet.
But I know where I’ll find the truth.
The dream mansion.
As soon as I close my eyes, Nichole will be waiting.
And this time, I won’t just be asking questions.
I’ll be demanding answers.
The moment my eyes close, I know exactly where I am.
The heavy oak doors of the dream mansion stand before me, towering and unyielding. The air is thick with the familiar scent of aged wood and something softer—jasmine.
And then, just like always, she’s there.
Nichole.
She stands at the top of the grand staircase, bathed in the soft glow of chandelier light, her hair cascading over her shoulder as she watches me. The warmth in her gaze is immediate, her lips parting as if she’s been waiting for me all along.
“Damian.”
My name falls from her lips like a sigh, but I don’t move toward her. Not yet.
Because I’m not here for comfort.
I’m here for the truth.
I watch her as she descends the staircase, her movements fluid, effortless, like she belongs in this world in a way that no one else does. She closes the distance between us, reaching for my hand without hesitation.
“I missed you,” she murmurs, her fingers brushing against mine.
I let her touch linger for a second longer than I should before I pull away.
She frowns. “What’s wrong?”
I tilt my head, watching her carefully. “You tell me.”
The confusion flickers across her face, brief but real. “Damian—”
“Your best friend was kidnapped.” My voice is low, measured. “And now you’re seeking protection from the people responsible.”
Her lips part, but no words come.
I step closer, keeping my tone steady. “Tell me why.”
She exhales, blinking once, her expression unreadable. “I don’t—”
“Don’t lie to me, Nichole.”
She flinches at the edge in my voice. I don’t want to be harsh with her—but I need the truth.
Because the moment she walked into that estate, the lines began to blur.
Between right and wrong. Between safety and danger. Between me and them.
I reach for her hand again, this time gripping it firmly. “Tell me what they told you.”
Nichole stands before me, the warmth in her gaze faltering as she registers my tone. I don’t let go of her hand, gripping it just tight enough to keep her from slipping away—physically or emotionally.
She doesn’t deflect.
She exhales, her shoulders rising before she finally meets my eyes. “I found out at the funeral.”
I frown, my grip tightening slightly. “Found out what?”
She swallows. “Antonio—he showed up while they were lowering the casket. He told me…” She hesitates, but only for a second. “He told me he was my real father.”
The words land like a hammer against my chest.
I don’t react, don’t speak, just stare at her, letting the silence stretch between us.
She shifts under my gaze. “The man I thought was my father—he wasn’t. He was Antonio’s brother. My uncle.” Her voice wavers. “I didn’t believe him. I walked away.”
A slow, cold realization spreads through me.
That means she knew before we entered the dream mansion to find Valentina. Before she let me hold her, kiss her, before we stood together in this very room searching for answers.
Before I risked everything for her.
My jaw clenches. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
She exhales, shaking her head. “Damian, I—”
“No,” I cut in, my voice low, sharp. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Her throat moves as she swallows, and for the first time since I walked into this dream, she looks vulnerable.
“Because I didn’t want to see you react like this.” Her voice is quiet, but it doesn’t waver. “Because I was scared. Because… I didn’t know what it would mean for us.”
I don’t say anything.
She steps closer, closing the space between us, her fingers curling around mine.
“You and my family have been at war for years,” she says softly.
“And whether or not I had anything to do with that… I’m still a Beretti.
” Her voice drops. “And I was afraid that once you found out, you wouldn’t want me anymore. ”
The anger inside me splinters.
I study her face, every inch of it—the hesitation, the quiet fear, the way she’s watching me like she’s waiting for me to confirm her worst suspicion.
I force out a slow breath, letting the tension in my grip ease. “Nichole…”
Her eyes flick up to mine.
I shake my head. “I don’t care what name you have. I don’t care whose blood runs through your veins.” My voice is steady now, firm. “You’re mine.”
A shaky breath escapes her lips, relief flickering across her features.
I don’t let go of her hand. I can’t.
Because as much as I want to be furious, as much as I want to demand why she kept this from me—I understand.
I let out another breath, dragging a hand through my hair as I gather my thoughts.
Now isn’t the time for emotions. Now is the time for clarity.
Because something still doesn’t add up.
Silence settles between us, thick with everything that’s just been said.
Nichole’s fingers are still laced with mine, but my mind is already working, threading the pieces together.
Something isn’t right.
I step back, releasing her hand as I pace toward the fireplace. The flames flicker, casting sharp shadows against the walls.
The Berettis kidnapped Valentina after the funeral.
They mentioned Nichole’s name.
And now, both Nichole and Valentina are at the Beretti estate.
I turn back to her, my voice calm but edged with certainty. “This wasn’t an accident.”
Nichole watches me carefully. “What do you mean?”
I exhale sharply. “They knew.”
She frowns. “Knew what?”
“They knew about you. About Valentina.” I shake my head, the realization settling deep. “Think about it, Nichole. The Berettis took Valentina right after the funeral—after Antonio found you.” I step closer. “They mentioned your name. That means they knew there was a connection.”
Her brows pull together as she processes the thought.
“And now,” I continue, “you’re at their estate. Safe. Protected.”
A chill creeps down my spine as the full picture unfolds.
“This was a setup.”
She flinches, shaking her head. “That doesn’t make sense—”
“It makes perfect sense.” My voice is sharper than I intend, but I don’t back down. “Antonio wanted you to need him.” I take a step closer, watching her carefully. “And he orchestrated everything to make sure you had no choice but to go to him.”
She exhales, shaking her head harder. “You don’t know that.”
I arch a brow. “Don’t I?”
Nichole’s arms wrap around herself, her hesitation betraying her. She wants to believe this was fate, that she ended up in Antonio’s house because she had nowhere else to go.
But I see it for what it is.
A carefully executed move.
I lower my voice, letting it sink into her. “Think about it. If Antonio had come to you any other way, would you have listened?”
She doesn’t answer.
I step even closer. “Would you have walked into his house, accepted his protection, if you weren’t desperate?”
Her throat moves as she swallows.
That’s my answer.
I exhale, dragging a hand down my face. “He played this perfectly.”
Nichole shifts uncomfortably. “But why?”
That’s the only question left.
Antonio has money, power, an empire. He didn’t need to trap Nichole under his roof if all he wanted was a reunion.
So what does he want?
I meet her gaze, my tone even. “You need to be careful.”
Her lips part, something uncertain flickering in her eyes.
Because she knows, deep down, I’m right.
Nichole watches me closely, studying my face as if she can see every thought running through my mind.
After everything we’ve just uncovered about Antonio, the weight of it still lingers in the air between us, thick and unshakable. But when she finally speaks again, her voice is softer—more personal.
“What was it like?” she asks, tilting her head slightly. “Seeing her for the first time?”
The question catches me off guard.
I blink, the image of Real Nichole flashing through my mind—standing across from Antonio, looking so much like the woman in front of me, yet completely different.
I exhale slowly. “I wanted to go to her.” The words come out rougher than I expect. “I wanted to step into her path, make her stop, make her look at me.” I shake my head, jaw tightening. “Every instinct in me was screaming to get out of the car, to make her run into my arms.”
Nichole smiles, something soft and sad playing across her lips. “But she wouldn’t have.”
I hold her gaze, my gut twisting. “No.”
“She doesn’t know you, Damian,” Nichole says gently. “Not yet.”
I take a slow breath, forcing myself to swallow the sharp, bitter taste of that truth.
“She has no connection to this place,” Nichole continues, gesturing to the dream mansion around us. “No memories of you.” Her expression turns unreadable. “No memories of me.”
A slow frown tugs at my brow.
“What do you mean?”
Nichole’s fingers skim the edge of my sleeve, a grounding touch. “The real me—she doesn’t dream.” Her voice is quiet but firm. “She never has.”
The weight of her words settles heavily in my chest.
“She has dissociative amnesia, Damian. She doesn’t remember her past.” A pause. “And that includes you.”
A beat of silence passes.
I rake a hand through my hair, my jaw clenching. “So you’re telling me that the real you—the woman I’ve been searching for—has no idea I exist?”
Nichole exhales softly. “Not in the way you want her to.”
I stare at her, my mind racing.