The Beretti of His Dreams

21. Awakening

Awakening

Nichole

I wake up buzzing.

Not just from exhilaration, not just from the aftershocks of something indescribable, but from realization.

I dreamed.

For the first time in my life, I truly, fully dreamed.

My pulse races, my skin still warm, my breath unsteady as I stare at the ceiling.

I replay every sensation, every moment that felt too real to be just imagination.

The heat of his hands, the weight of his body pressing into mine, the way our breaths mingled in the darkness—it wasn’t just an illusion. It was real.

But… how?

I’ve heard people talk about dreams before—soft, disjointed things, flashes of images, distant echoes of feelings. But this? This was something else entirely. Every touch, every breath, every whispered word felt like it had been seared into my skin. Like I had lived it, like I had been there.

Because I was.

It has to be Damian.

The thought sends a shiver down my spine. The night before had been so intense, so raw, so overwhelming that it had carried over into my dreams. Or maybe it was something more.

Something deeper.

I press my hands against my face, grinning like an idiot. The thrill bubbling inside me is impossible to contain. I feel light. Effervescent.

Is this what dreaming feels like?

Is this what I’ve been missing my whole life?

I push myself out of bed, my body still thrumming with energy as I step into the bathroom. The usual morning grogginess is completely gone. I feel awake. Alive. I splash cool water over my face, but even the chill doesn’t dampen the fire simmering just beneath my skin.

I pull my hair up into a loose bun, humming softly to myself as I slip into a fresh set of clothes. I don’t even realize I’m smiling until I catch my reflection in the mirror.

The girl staring back at me looks… different. Lighter. Brighter. Changed. And it’s because of him.

The thought sends another jolt through me—one I don’t even try to fight.

Because for the first time in years, I don’t want to fight what I’m feeling.

I want to hold onto it.

I stride out of my room, still riding the high of the dream, and make my way toward the dining room. Everything feels sharper, more vibrant. The air is crisper, the sounds of the estate waking up feel richer, more textured. My skin still tingles with an afterglow I can’t explain.

I don’t care. I don’t want to explain it.

I just want to feel it.

But as I step into the dining room, my energy collides with something else entirely—Antonio’s watchful gaze.

He’s already seated at the head of the table, his coffee in hand, his expression completely unreadable. But his dark eyes flick over me, taking me in, noticing.

I falter for half a second. Does he sense it? Does he know?

I shifted my expression, force my movements to slow as I take my seat, but the edge of my smile remains. I can’t quite get rid of it, and I know Antonio sees.

He leans back in his chair, his gaze sharp but unreadable. Then, finally, he speaks.

“You’re in a good mood this morning.”

It’s not a question. It’s an observation.

And for some reason, it makes my heart pound just a little harder.

Antonio is already seated at the head of the table when I enter the dining room, but I barely acknowledge him as I move toward the coffee. I’m still too wrapped up in the lingering energy of last night.

The dream. The dream.

It plays in my head in perfect clarity—every touch, every whispered breath, every desperate moment. I can still feel it.

I take a sip of my coffee, the warmth doing little to settle the unshakable buzz beneath my skin.

“You’re up early,” Antonio remarks.

I glance at him over my cup, catching the flicker of curiosity in his gaze. It’s subtle, but it’s there.

I shrug. “Couldn’t sleep in.”

Which is the truth. Because for the first time in my life, I dreamed—and I woke up feeling more rested than ever.

Antonio nods, taking a slow sip of his espresso. He’s watching me. Not in an obvious way, but in that quiet, assessing manner I’ve already come to recognize.

“You seem… different this morning,” he comments.

I lift a brow. “Different?”

His gaze flicks over me, sharp yet unreadable. “Lighter.”

I hesitate for only a fraction of a second. But in that moment, I realize—he’s right.

I do feel lighter.

Like a weight I didn’t even know I was carrying has finally started to lift. Like something inside me has shifted, and I can’t quite name it, but I don’t want to fight it.

“Must be the coffee,” I say, flashing him a small, teasing smirk before taking another sip.

Antonio doesn’t press the subject, but I know he’s noticing.

I don’t care.

Because for once, I don’t want to explain myself.

I just want to feel this.

After breakfast, I move through the estate with a new kind of energy.

It’s not just the coffee, not just the good night’s sleep—it’s something deeper. Something that’s still buzzing beneath my skin, warm and alive.

I dreamed. And not just any dream—I dreamed of him.

I barely process the routine of my morning—brushing my hair, slipping into a fitted black top and tailored pants, lacing up my boots—because my mind is somewhere else entirely.

Or rather, with someone.

Even as I move through the hallways of the estate, I can still feel it—the connection.

Like an invisible thread, a tether just beneath the surface of my thoughts. It’s not intrusive, not overwhelming, but it’s there. Constant. Steady. Like the echo of something that hasn’t quite faded.

I shake my head, exhaling as I step into my room. Get it together.

But then, my eyes land on something resting on the dresser.

Damian’s card.

The sleek black rectangle with embossed red numbers, left exactly where I placed it after the milonga. The second I see it, my stomach tightens, heat curling low in my belly.

He gave it to me.

He wants me to use it.

I stare at it for a long moment, my fingers hovering just above it before I finally pick it up, running my thumb over the textured surface.

Text him.

The thought is immediate, visceral.

But should I?

I hesitate, gnawing at my lip as I pace toward the bed, dropping onto the mattress with the card still in my grasp.

I don’t do things like this. I don’t reach out first.

But last night changed something.

I can’t ignore it.

I pull out my phone, heart hammering as I type out a message.

Me: I used to think dreams weren’t real.

I hover over the send button, my pulse loud in my ears. My fingers tremble.

Then, before I can second-guess myself, I press send.

The moment it delivers, I drop my phone onto the bed beside me, exhaling slowly.

And then, I wait.

The second my message is sent, it feels real.

The connection between us, the weight of what happened last night—it’s not just a lingering fantasy anymore.

It’s a choice. My choice.

I stare at the phone screen, my heart still pounding. The message sits there, delivered. No response yet. No read receipt. Just silence.

I inhale slowly, steadying myself. He’s probably busy. Or maybe he’s sleeping.

Or maybe he’s making me wait on purpose.

The thought sends a shiver down my spine, and I don’t know whether to be annoyed or thrilled.

I drop back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling, the phone resting beside me. Waiting.

It’s ridiculous. I shouldn’t care this much. It’s just a text. Just words.

But with him, nothing is ever just anything.

I close my eyes, letting myself drift. The memory of the dream is still so clear, so vivid that if I let myself sink into it, I can almost feel him again. The way he touched me, the way he owned me, the way I felt more alive in that moment than I ever have before.

I shift slightly, heat pooling low in my stomach.

And then—my phone vibrates.

My breath catches.

I snatch it up so fast it nearly slips from my fingers.

A single message.

Damian: Then tell me—does it feel real now?

Damn him.

A slow, dangerous smile curves my lips. I can practically hear his voice in my head, feel the heat in his words.

He’s playing with me. Teasing me.

And it’s working.

I hover over the keyboard, tempted to keep things light, to play it safe.

But I don’t want safe.

I type out my response, my pulse thundering.

Me: More than ever.

I press send, my body thrumming with adrenaline.

My phone is still in my hand, the screen glowing against the dim lighting of my room.

The message sits there, sent, delivered, waiting.

I can’t help it—I bite my lip.

I know exactly what I just admitted. I know he won’t let it slide. I don’t want him to.

A response comes almost instantly.

Damian: Good. Then you understand now.

I smirk, shifting against the pillows, rolling onto my side as I read it again.

Understand what? That you can get into my head even when I’m asleep?

I type out a response, my fingers moving fast.

Me: You sound awfully sure of yourself.

He replies immediately.

Damian: I am.

Damian: You felt me, didn’t you?

Damn him.

A slow, heated pulse thrums through me, and I know he’s right. I did feel him. More than that—I still do. It’s like a part of me is still tangled up in the dream, still in his hands.

But I’m not about to just hand him the satisfaction.

Me: You have a very high opinion of yourself, Mr. LaCampanella.

There’s a pause—long enough that I wonder if I’ve thrown him off.

Then—

Damian: Oh, come on, princess. We both know I earned it.

I actually laugh.

The confidence, the audacity, the way he’s so completely relentless.

I prop myself up on my elbow, grinning at the screen.

Me: You think you can just take credit for my first dream like that?

Damian: I don’t think. I know.

I exhale, shaking my head, but I can’t wipe the smile off my face. He’s doing this on purpose—teasing me, pushing me. He wants me to admit it.

And God help me, I want to.

I stare at the screen for a long moment, debating how much I want to give him.

Then, before I can overthink it, I type:

Me: Fine. Maybe you had a little something to do with it.

His reply is immediate.

Damian: I had everything to do with it.

A shiver runs down my spine.

The teasing, the push and pull—it’s intoxicating.

I shift, stretching out across the mattress, noticing how warm I feel all over.

Me: You’re impossible.

Damian: And yet, you’re still talking to me.

My lips press together, trying not to smirk.

Me: Maybe I like the challenge.

Another pause. Longer this time.

And then—

Damian: Meet me tonight.

My breath catches.

The heat, the teasing—it just turned into something else entirely.

Something real.

Something I can’t ignore.

My fingers hover over the keyboard, my pulse thundering.

Me: Where?

Damian: I’ll send you a location.

Me: And what exactly do you have planned?

Damian: Wouldn’t you like to know?

I should hesitate. I should take a breath, think it over, remind myself that this man is dangerous.

But I don’t.

Because the truth is—I already know my answer.

Me: Fine. But this better be worth my time.

Damian: Oh, princess. It will be.

I stare at my phone long after the conversation ends.

The weight of what I just agreed to settles over me, but instead of doubt, there’s only anticipation.

I said yes.

I’m going to see Damian LaCampanella again. Tonight.

I should be thinking about the consequences. About what this means. About the game we’re playing and how dangerous it’s becoming.

But instead, all I can think about is him.

The way he looked at me at the milonga. The way he danced like he’d known my body his entire life. The way I felt in his arms—completely untethered, completely free.

And the dream…

Heat licks up my spine as the memory washes over me, vivid and inarguably real.

It’s not just a game anymore.

Something is happening between us—something I can’t explain, can’t rationalize, can’t ignore.

And tonight? Tonight, I won’t even try.

I exhale, shaking my head as I drop my phone onto the bed, rolling onto my back. The ceiling stares back at me, and I can’t help but smirk.

Damian LaCampanella is a risk I want to take.

The rest of the day is an exercise in restraint.

I go through the motions, keeping my face neutral, unreadable. Breakfast. Conversations with Antonio. A brief check-in with Dante, whose gaze lingers on me a little too long, as if he can sense something is different.

But I don’t let anything slip.

Because the truth is—I can’t think about anything else.

Not the estate, not my family, not the weight of my last name.

Only him.

The minutes drag, slow and deliberate, testing my patience. I keep myself busy—walking the estate grounds, reading, even training for an hour in the private gym. But nothing helps.

Because the second I’m alone, it all comes rushing back.

The dream. His hands. His voice. His touch.

By the time the sun starts to dip below the horizon, I feel like I’m about to crawl out of my skin.

The anticipation is a slow, burning ache.

I want to see him. I need to.

And the worst part?

He knows it.

I can feel it in the way he left me waiting all day. No messages. No check-ins. Nothing.

He’s making me sit with it. Making me want.

dicky bastard.

Fine. If he wants to play, I’ll make damn sure he remembers tonight.

I step into my closet, a smirk tugging at my lips.

I don’t rush getting ready. I take my time.

A long, hot shower. Steam curling against my skin, relaxing my muscles, making me more aware of every inch of myself.

By the time I step out, I already know what I’m going to wear.

Something bold. Something he won’t be able to ignore.

I pull out a black dress—silky, elegant, with a thigh-high slit that’s just barely indecent. Thin straps, an open back, delicate yet undeniably dangerous.

I slip into it slowly, letting the fabric glide over my skin, hugging my curves in all the right ways.

Next, the heels.

Black. Sharp. Designed to leave an impression.

I catch my reflection in the mirror, and for a second, I don’t recognize myself.

The glow in my eyes, the way my lips are already slightly parted, the way my body hums in anticipation.

I look like a woman who’s about to do something reckless.

Something I won’t regret.

I let out a soft, amused exhale.

God help him.

Because tonight?

Damian LaCampanella won’t know what hit him.