26. The Storm Brewing
The Storm Brewing
Damian
The second I read Nichole’s message, I see red.
I should’ve known this was coming. I should’ve expected it. I knew she was being watched after our last night together, and I told myself to back off—to let things cool.
But I waited too long.
Now, something’s happened at Antonio’s estate, and I don’t have all the details. Yet.
My grip tightens around my phone as I sit back against the leather of my chair, jaw locked, pulse pounding in my ears. The text was vague, careful—too careful.
Nichole: Something happened tonight. We need to talk.
That’s all she sent. No details. No elaboration. Which means she doesn’t feel safe enough to say more.
I close my eyes, inhaling slowly through my nose. I need to think.
She was fine a week ago. She was untouched, unbothered, still slipping past Antonio’s radar. But now?
Now, something’s changed.
I grab my whiskey glass, tossing back what’s left in one swallow before pushing out of my chair. The anger sits heavy in my chest, boiling beneath my skin, but I can’t afford to lose control. Not yet.
Instead, I dial her number.
She picks up after one ring.
“Damian,” she breathes, her voice lower than usual. I hear the tension in it, the weight she’s trying to hide.
“What happened?” I cut straight to it.
A pause. Then, “Someone died.”
My grip tightens around the phone. “Who?”
“A woman at the estate. One of the wives.” She exhales, and I can hear the faint sound of movement—she’s pacing. “It was sudden. In the middle of a gathering.”
Something cold slithers through me.
“How?”
Another pause. “They’re saying it was a heart attack.”
Bullshit.
I close my eyes, forcing my breath to stay even. “And you’re telling me this why?”
“I don’t know.” She hesitates, and that’s what sets me on edge the most. Nichole isn’t the type to hesitate. “It just—felt wrong.”
I don’t need more than that.
I already know.
I let a full second pass before speaking again, my voice low, sharp. “Listen to me. You keep your head down. Don’t do anything, don’t ask anything, don’t look for anything.”
“Damian—”
“I mean it.” My tone leaves no room for argument. “I’ll get the full story in my sleep.”
She goes quiet. She knows what that means.
I can almost picture her now, standing somewhere in her room, chewing the inside of her cheek, debating whether to push back. She doesn’t.
Instead, she exhales. “Okay.”
I run a hand over my jaw, nodding even though she can’t see it. “I’ll contact you soon. Just—watch your back, princess.”
Her silence lingers for a moment longer before she responds. “I will.”
The call clicks off.
I set my phone down, breathing slow, controlled.
Then, I reach for the chain around my neck, fingers curling around the small, cold key.
Tonight, I’ll get my answers.
And if I find out what I think I will—
Somebody’s going to pay.
I lay back in my chair, the empty whiskey glass sitting on the desk beside me, my fingers still wrapped around the key at my neck. My mind refuses to settle, the pieces fitting together too perfectly, too easily.
Someone died at Antonio’s tonight.
A sudden death. A heart attack, they say.
But Nichole felt something was off.
And if she felt it, she was probably right.
I exhale, leaning my head back, closing my eyes. The answers are there.
Waiting for me.
And all I have to do is go find them.
The second I step into the dream mansion, she’s already there.
Nichole stands near the bar, her back to me, wearing the same dress she wore to the estate tonight. The same one she was wearing when someone died right in front of her.
The dim lighting casts a golden glow on her skin, but her shoulders are rigid, tense. She’s waiting for me.
I step forward, my footsteps silent over the marble floor. “Tell me everything.”
She turns slowly, her expression unreadable, but I see it in her eyes—she already knows why I’m here.
“It wasn’t a heart attack,” she says simply.
My jaw tightens. “Go on.”
She takes a slow breath, then walks toward me, her voice controlled, measured.
“One of the wives—Lucia. She was talking to me when the waitress brought us wine. Two glasses, right in front of us.” She swallows. “I was reaching for mine, but before I could take it, she grabbed the wrong glass.”
A slow, dangerous pulse beats beneath my skin.
Nichole watches me carefully, her voice dropping lower. “She drank it all. Every last drop. Less than a minute later, she collapsed.”
I clench my jaw, rage curling hot and sharp in my chest.
“Dante,” I mutter.
Nichole nods. “It has to be. It wasn’t random, Damian. That drink was meant for me.”
The words sink into me, deeper than they should. Too close. Too real.
I already knew something was wrong. I already knew she was in danger.
But now?
Now, I know just how close they came to taking her from me.
She should be dead.
If that woman hadn’t been too eager, too impatient, if she hadn’t reached for the wrong glass—Nichole wouldn’t be standing in front of me right now.
I flex my fingers, my hands itching for something to break, something to tear apart.
They tried to kill her. And they’re going to try again.
I take a slow, measured breath, locking my gaze onto hers. “You need to get out of there.”
Nichole studies me for a second, but she doesn’t argue.
She already knows.
Antonio won’t protect her. Not from this.
Dante won’t stop until she’s in the ground.
And me?
I won’t fucking let that happen.
I step closer, lowering my voice, deadly and certain. “I’m going to get you out, princess.”
A flicker of something crosses her expression—relief, trust. But she doesn’t say anything.
Because we both know what has to happen next.
And this time, I’m not waiting.
I wake with one thought pounding in my skull.
She isn’t safe.
I push upright, my breath steady, but my body already moving. The dream was enough to confirm what I already suspected—Dante was behind the poisoning.
And Nichole was the target.
I glance at the time. Too late for comfort, too early to wait. Dante doesn’t make mistakes like this. He adapts. He won’t just let her go to bed peacefully and try again another night.
If he knows she dodged death once, he’ll be thinking of his next move.
And I can’t give him the chance.
I grab my phone and fire off a text.
Damian: Call me when you’re alone.
I don’t expect her to reply immediately, but within seconds, my screen lights up with an incoming call. She already knows something is wrong.
I answer.
She doesn’t waste time. “What’s going on?”
I don’t bother softening my tone. She needs to hear the urgency in my voice. “You need to get out of that house. Now.”
A sharp inhale on the other end. She doesn’t argue, doesn’t question it. But I hear the shift in her breathing, the way her mind is already racing. “Why?”
“Dante.” My voice is firm. “That drink was meant for you. He’s not going to let another chance slip.”
Silence stretches for a fraction too long. Then she exhales, her voice lower now. “What do I do?”
I press my fingers to my temple, keeping my thoughts sharp. No mistakes.
“Act casual. Don’t take anything with you—nothing that’ll make them suspicious. If you get stopped, tell them you’re going for a drive to clear your head. Say you’ll be back later.”
I pause, letting that sink in before adding, “Dante’s smart. He won’t take his eyes off you, not after tonight. Expect someone to follow.”
I hear the slight shuffle on the other end—she’s already moving.
“Okay,” she murmurs.
“I’ll have my men waiting nearby. If someone tails you, I’ll handle it.” My voice drops lower, deadly serious. “Nichole—do exactly what I say.”
A beat of silence.
Then, soft but unwavering, she responds, “I will.”
I exhale slowly, flexing my fingers. Good.
“Go,” I tell her. “Now.”
She hangs up.
I grip my phone, my jaw locked as I rise to my feet. Time’s up, Beretti. She’s leaving and this time?
She’s not coming back.
I don’t waste time.
I grab my phone and dial Enzo. He picks up before the first ring even finishes.
“We need to move. Now.” My voice is sharp, leaving no room for hesitation. “Get the car ready, and have another one follow.”
“Already on it,” Enzo responds, the sound of an engine roaring to life in the background. Good.
I push out of my office, striding down the hall, my mind locked on one thing—getting to her before Dante’s men do.
We’re parked a couple of blocks away within minutes, engine idling, eyes locked on the gates of the Beretti estate.
We wait.
A few minutes stretch longer than they should, tension winding tight in my chest, but then—her car pulls out.
I see the headlights flicker as she turns onto the street, her movements smooth, controlled. She’s playing it cool. Just like I told her.
Then, exactly as I expected—another car pulls out of the estate behind her.
I smirk. Predictable.
I dial her number. She picks up immediately.
“Head toward the casino,” I tell her. “The underground one I took you to.”
She doesn’t ask why. She just says, “Okay.”
“Park and wait for me when you get there. Don’t get out of the car until I say so.”
A short pause, then, “Understood.”
I hang up and immediately switch calls, dialing the other car.
“They have a tail,” I tell them. “Cut them off once you’re near the casino district. Make it clean.”
“Copy that.”
I toss my phone onto the dashboard and lean forward slightly, my gaze locked on the road ahead.
Enzo keeps a steady pace, trailing from a safe distance, our headlights dimmed. I keep my eyes locked on the car in front of us—the one tailing Nichole.
She’s playing her part perfectly, keeping her speed even, taking normal turns, making it look like she doesn’t have a single care in the world.
But I know better.
She knows she’s being followed.
And she knows I’m coming for her.
The city lights begin to thin as she nears the casino district, but I don’t want to make a move here—not yet. Too many eyes. Too many ways this could go wrong.
So I wait.
The moment comes a few blocks later.
Nichole turns down a quieter street—one that leads toward the outskirts of the district. The buildings here are spaced farther apart, fewer pedestrians, fewer witnesses.
Perfect.
I pick up my phone and dial.
“They’re in position,” I say. “Make the move.”
The first car—my car—accelerates ahead of the tail, closing the gap fast.
The moment they hit the next empty intersection—they cut them off.
A sharp screech of tires, a violent jolt as the tail slams the brakes. Then—gunfire.
Two quick shots, precise, efficient. The back tires burst, the car veering wildly before coming to a halt.
Nichole keeps driving. Good girl.
I don’t hesitate.
Enzo pulls up alongside the disabled vehicle, the men inside already scrambling. I don’t give them a chance.
I roll the window down, gripping the neck of the Molotov cocktail, the heat of the rag already burning close to my fingers.
The second the glass bottle leaves my hand, I already know the outcome.
It crashes through the open back window, shattering inside the car. A second later—flames burst to life, licking up the seats, the dashboard.
The men inside start screaming.
I don’t stay to watch.
Enzo floors it, and we disappear into the night.
The last thing I see in the rearview mirror is the tail car engulfed in fire, choking the dark street with black smoke.
A warning. A message. A promise.
Dante sent his men for her.
Now, I’m sending them back in pieces.