35. A New Order
A New Order
Damian
The ride back is silent.
Nichole rests against my shoulder, her fingers gripping my sleeve, holding onto me as if she’s afraid I’ll disappear. I don’t say anything—I just let her hold on, let her process everything.
Dante is dead.
Antonio didn’t fight it. He didn’t demand revenge. He let us leave. That alone tells me everything. He’s accepted what happened, even if it’s killing him inside.
Enzo drives, his focus unwavering, but I can feel the weight in the car, the unspoken thoughts lingering between all of us.
The war between the Berettis and LaCampanellas is over.
But a new one is about to begin.
Because even though Antonio approved of me in that final moment, even though he saw reason—his men won’t. The underworld thrives on vengeance, on pride, on blood spilled to balance the scales. And Dante’s blood is on my hands.
The only thing keeping them from hunting me down is Antonio himself.
For now.
Nichole shifts slightly, tilting her face up to look at me. Her eyes search mine, looking for something—assurance, certainty, maybe even relief.
I slide my hand over hers, squeezing gently. "It’s over," I say quietly.
She exhales, but it’s shaky. “Is it?”
I don’t answer right away. Because I don’t lie to her. Not now. Not ever.
“For us?” I murmur. “Yes.”
She studies me for a moment longer, her lips parting as if she wants to argue. But then she sighs, resting her forehead against my shoulder.
I press a kiss to her temple, closing my eyes briefly.
We won.
The warehouse is packed.
Even with all the open space, the air feels heavy, thick with the weight of too many bodies, too many years of war, too much bloodshed between these men.
On one side stands the Berettis, their expressions unreadable, their presence dominant in numbers. On the other, my men, LaCampanellas, each one standing tall, unwavering, prepared for anything.
Tension coils between us all, thick and unrelenting. This war has lasted too long.
And now, it ends.
Antonio steps forward. All eyes follow him.
He takes his time, scanning the faces before him, letting the weight of his presence settle over the room. Then, finally, he speaks.
“Dante is dead.”
The words land like a hammer against stone.
A ripple moves through the crowd. Some expected it. Some didn’t. But no one dares to interrupt him.
Antonio’s voice is sharp, edged with something raw. “My son made his choice. He let his greed consume him. His ambition drove him to betray his own family. He tried to take my daughter’s life.”
A murmur spreads, but Antonio silences it with a single look.
He turns, facing me. This moment is deliberate.
“And last night he tried to take mine,” he continues. “But Damian LaCampanella saved me.”
The ripple shifts again. This time, it’s laced with conflict, uncertainty.
I see it in their faces—the struggle between what they know and what they’ve been raised to believe. We were enemies.
Now?
Now, everything is different.
Antonio steps closer, placing both hands behind his back as he surveys his men. “This war between our families has taken enough. Too many of our men have died for something that ends today.”
Silence blankets the warehouse.
“From this moment on,” Antonio declares, “there will be peace between the Berettis and the LaCampanellas. The war is over.”
The weight of those words settles like a heavy fog over the room.
And then—Antonio scans the crowd once more.
“If anyone objects, speak now.”
Seconds pass.
Not a single voice rises.
Antonio waits. Watches. Dares someone to challenge him.
But no one does.
Then, slowly, Antonio steps back. His presence remains unwavering as he speaks again, but this time, his voice carries something new.
Something powerful.
"The future is already written."
He turns to Nichole.
Every eye follows, watching her, watching us.
She doesn’t flinch under the weight of their gazes. She lifts her chin, standing strong.
Antonio looks back at his men. And then—he delivers the final blow.
“My daughter is pregnant.”
The air shifts.
Every head turns.
Shock rips through the men, murmurs spreading like wildfire. The tension tightens, breaths are held.
And then—Antonio raises his hand, silencing them all.
“She is carrying Damian LaCampanella’s child.”
Silence.
It’s so still, so thick with realization that the air feels unbreathable.
And then—cheers erupt.
Loud. Echoing. Deafening.
The sound rolls through the warehouse, shaking the very foundation of what these men once believed.
This is not just a truce.
This is a rebirth.
Antonio lifts his chin, voice carrying over the roar of approval. “This child will unite our families. Today marks the rise of a new era for the Berettis and LaCampanellas.”
The cheers grow louder.
Men clap shoulders, nod, accept what has just been declared.
Nichole turns to look at me, her expression unreadable, but her eyes shining.
I hold her gaze before looking at Antonio.
And as the room erupts around us, we share a final, silent moment.
A single nod.
A mutual understanding.
The war is over.
And our future begins now.