1. The Ambush
The Ambush
Damian
The air in the backroom hung thick with smoke and secrets, each breath laced with the tang of whiskey and cigar ash.
The scent clung to the mahogany furniture, seeping into the very bones of the room.
Overhead, the light flickered, stretching fractured shadows across the polished table, as if the walls themselves were leaning in—watching, waiting for something to snap.
Seated at the head of the table, I drummed my fingers against the smooth wood, my other hand resting on the grip of my gun. Always within reach. Always ready.
Antonio Beretti was getting sloppy. His men had started moving erratically—reckless, desperate. The kind of mistakes men made when they had no options left. Or worse, when they thought they had already won. Either way, something didn’t sit right with me.
I let my gaze sweep over my men. Enzo stood to my right, arms crossed, his usual smirk absent.
His focus stayed locked on the door, the muscle in his jaw tight, like he was expecting death to walk in at any second.
Near the entrance, Marco shifted, his fingers twitching at his side.
He was too seasoned to be nervous without reason. That alone put me on edge.
This wasn’t paranoia. It was instinct. The same gut-deep warning that had kept me breathing more times than I could count.
A whisper of movement.
Too subtle for anyone else to catch, but I heard it. A shift in the air. The kind of silence that wasn’t empty—it was waiting.
Then, in the space of a heartbeat, the world detonated.
The door blasted inward—wood, metal, and dust erupting in a deafening concussion. The force hit like a battering ram, rattling my ribs and knocking the air from my lungs. Heat seared my skin, the pressure rolling through the room like a shockwave.
The world tilted for half a second.
Then instinct took over.
I was already moving.
My fingers tightened around my gun as I flipped the table, dropping low just as the first gunshots ripped through the air.
The deafening crack of automatic fire filled the room, drowning out all other sound.
Bullets shredded the walls. Glass shattered.
Wood splintered. Shadows twisted in the haze of dust and smoke.
Bodies hit the ground, but I didn’t have time to register who.
A thick cloud of debris made it harder to see, harder to breathe. I blinked rapidly, forcing my vision to clear just enough to take in the scene. Figures moved through the haze—calculated, precise. Too fast. Too coordinated.
This wasn’t a warning.
It was a slaughter.
A bullet struck the table inches from my face, sending splinters of wood into the air. My men fired back, but we were pinned. The air was thick with shouted orders, but they were lost beneath the storm of gunfire.
Five—no, six men. The way they moved, coordinated and methodical, told me everything I needed to know.
This wasn’t just a hit.
It was an execution.
They knew exactly where we’d be. Exactly how to cut us off.
I raised my gun and fired. The first shot landed clean—a bullet through the skull. The second found its mark in another man’s throat. He staggered, gurgled, dropped. I didn’t watch him hit the floor.
More bullets sliced through the air, carving into what little cover we had left.
The room was closing in. Our options were shrinking fast.
"Boss! We’re pinned!" Enzo’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp with urgency.
No shit.
I grabbed another gun from the body beside me, gripping both weapons tight.
There was only one way out of this.
Through them—and we’re running out of time.
Then I see him.
Antonio Beretti.
Slipping through the side door, his suit barely ruffled, like he’s already won.
Rage ignites, hot and sharp, fueling every step as I push forward, tearing through bodies, each shot precise and deliberate. The bastard is within reach: ten steps…five steps.
A fresh burst of gunfire forces me back, bullets biting into the floor at my feet. I take cover, cursing under my breath. When I glance up again, he’s gone.
The door swings shut, cutting me off.
I press my back against the wall, forcing down the frustration burning through me. I’ll deal with Antonio soon enough. But right now, my men are still outgunned, and this room is a goddamn death trap.
More Beretti enforcers flood in, their numbers stacking against us. We don’t have the firepower to last much longer.
No choice.
I reload, rolling my shoulders. If they want a massacre, I’ll give them one.
Gunfire tore through the room, each deafening burst sending shards of wood and glass flying.
The acrid scent of blood and gunpowder thickened the air, clinging to my skin, searing my lungs.
Smoke curled through the space like a living thing, twisting and expanding with every shot fired, turning the backroom into a battlefield.
We were boxed in.
I pressed my back against the overturned table, forcing my mind to work through the chaos. Every exit was covered. Every move was a risk. Antonio slipping away was a gut punch, but I didn’t have time to dwell on it. We needed to get out—now.
Enzo reloaded beside me, his movements fast but controlled. Blood streaked down his jaw, but his grip on his gun remained steady. That was good. I needed steady.
“We can’t hold this position.” My voice was low, firm. Panic got people killed.
“No shit, boss.” He wiped the blood from his face with the back of his hand. “Ideas? Cause I’m fresh out.”
I scanned the room, every muscle in my body coiled tight. We were outgunned, but the Berettis weren’t expecting us to push forward. They thought they had us cornered. They thought we were trapped.
They were wrong.
My gaze landed on the far end of the room—a secondary exit, blocked but not unreachable. The wall beside it had already taken damage from the blast. A well-placed charge could break through.
“Marco, you carrying?” I called out, already knowing the answer.
He fumbled at his belt, yanked free a small charge, and tossed it to me. His eyes were sharp, assessing. “You’re insane.”
“I hear that a lot.”
A fresh volley of bullets rained down, slamming into the table and forcing us lower. Time was running out.
I rolled out of cover, dodging a spray of gunfire as I slid toward the far wall.
The impact jarred my ribs, pain radiating through my torso, but I pushed through it.
I worked fast, setting the charge against the weakened structure.
My fingers moved with practiced precision, locking the detonator into place.
The countdown flashed—five seconds.
That was all I needed.
“On me! Now!” I pushed up, firing two rounds into the nearest threat before sprinting back toward my men. The Beretti soldiers saw what I was doing too late.
The explosion detonated.
The shockwave ripped through the air, deafening and blinding, sending dust and debris flying. The walls buckled—not fully collapsing, but just enough. A gap opened, wide enough to force our way through.
I didn’t hesitate.
“Move!”
Bullets chased our heels, but I kept going. My body was a machine, instincts the only thing keeping me breathing. Enzo was at my right, Marco covering the rear.
The exit was in sight.
Then, the sharp crack of a sniper shot. Pain exploded through my chest—hot, searing, relentless.
The world blurred. Not here. Not now.
The force of the bullet knocked me sideways, the world tilting violently as my knees buckled beneath me.
I staggered, my body betraying me. The pavement rushed up to meet me as my head hit the ground with a sickening thud. Seconds later, Enzo’s arms locked around me.
“Damian! Stay with me!” His voice was sharp, panicked.
Enzo never panicked.
I blinked hard, fighting the darkness clawing at the edges of my vision. My hand pressed to my chest, fingers meeting warmth—too much blood. My pulse, erratic and uneven, a sickening flutter I felt in my ribs, my throat, my skull.
Another shot rang out, ricocheting off the brick beside us.
The sniper was still hunting.
“We need to move—now!” Marco’s voice barely cut through the roaring in my ears.
Enzo gritted his teeth, adjusting his grip on me. “We’re going! Cover us!”
Marco fired blindly into the chaos, buying us seconds—seconds we desperately needed. Enzo half-carried, half-dragged me toward the blasted opening in the wall.
My body felt heavier with each step, the pain sharpening with every jolt, but I forced my legs to move.
I would not die here.
The night air hit like a shock to the system as we stumbled into the open. My lungs expanded, but each breath was shallow, ragged. The street ahead blurred—vehicles, distant figures, headlights slicing through the dark.
“We’re exposed!” Marco shouted, reloading as another shot rang out, sparking off a nearby car door.
Enzo cursed under his breath. “Get to the alley!”
Every step was a battle. My muscles screamed. My vision dimmed at the edges.
Stay awake; Stay alive I kept telling myself.
We reached the alleyway, diving behind cover just as another bullet whizzed past. Marco slammed his back against the wall, panting. Enzo lowered me carefully, his grip firm, grounding me.
I gritted my teeth, forcing my breath to steady. I needed to keep moving. I needed to make sure Antonio didn’t get away with this.
But my body had other plans.
I sagged against the brick, blood seeping between my fingers, staining the pavement beneath me.
Enzo kneeled beside me, his jaw clenched. “You’re bleeding out.”
No shit.
I tried to speak, but my throat locked up, my breath catching painfully. The sniper was still out there.
The Berettis wouldn’t stop. We weren’t safe yet. The world blurred as the darkness crept in again.
I couldn’t pass out…Not yet.
But the darkness dragged at the edges of my mind, relentless, pulling me under like an undertow. I fought against it, gritting my teeth, digging my fingers into the cold pavement. But my body had reached its limit.
A choked sound escaped me as another wave of pain ripped through my chest—hot, sharp, tearing. My vision blurred, the world narrowing to a tunnel of flickering shadows. Too much blood.
Enzo’s grip tightened around my arm, his strength grounding me. His expression was carved from steel, but his eyes—his eyes were afraid.
“You don’t get to fucking die on me,” he growled, his voice rough with frustration and something dangerously close to desperation. “Not now. Not like this.”
Marco swore under his breath, peeking around the alley corner, his gun raised. “They’re still looking for us. We need to move.”
Enzo exhaled sharply, his jaw locked. “How bad is it?”
I tried to answer, but all that came out was a wet, rasping breath.
Not good.
Enzo swore again, shifting closer, pressing a hand to my wound. A fresh jolt of agony ripped through me, my body arching in response. My breath hitched, but his grip stayed firm, keeping me anchored to the here and now.
“Hold pressure,” Marco said, his voice tight. “I’ll clear the path.”
Another gunshot cracked through the alley, but it sounded distant now.
Everything did. The pain. The noise. The city—fading into the background like a poorly tuned radio.
I forced my lips to move, barely managing a whisper. “Get… out.”
“Shut the hell up,” Enzo snapped. “You’re not giving orders right now.”
I wanted to argue, but the words slipped away before they formed. My limbs felt too heavy.
Enzo’s grip tightened. “Hey. Stay with me, boss. You hear me?”
His voice was strained now. Almost pleading. I tried. I really did. But the pull of unconsciousness was too strong.
The last thing I heard was Enzo shouting my name, his voice raw with anger and something worse—fear.
Then…nothing.
Darkness wasn’t empty. It had weight—a crushing force that dragged me deeper, smothering, endless. Sounds rippled through it, distant and distorted. The sharp wail of sirens. The muted pounding of boots against pavement. The frantic murmur of voices hovering just beyond my reach.
Pain tore through me, sharp and unrelenting, dragging me back like a hook lodged in my chest. My lungs burned, every breath scraping against open wounds. The world shifted in and out of focus, my limbs heavy, unresponsive.
A voice cut through the haze.
Enzo.
“Damian! Come on, stay with me, boss!”
His voice was ragged, fraying at the edges with something dangerously close to desperation. I had never heard him like this.
I forced my eyes open and caught the dim streetlights flickering, shadows shifting against brick walls, the flashing red-and-blue glow of an ambulance parked at the alley’s mouth. Cold pavement pressed into my back, its unforgiving chill seeping into my bones.
I was still here.
A figure loomed above me, hands pressing down hard on my wound. I hissed through clenched teeth as pain flared, white-hot and punishing.
“His pulse is weak,” a woman’s voice said. A paramedic. That explained the pain.
“He’s losing too much blood,” she added, her tone sharp with urgency. “We need to get him stabilized now.”
Enzo’s grip on my arm tightened, fingers digging in like an anchor. “You don’t get to die,” he muttered, his jaw clenched. “Not after all this shit.”
The paramedic moved fast, securing an oxygen mask over my face, adjusting IV lines. My vision blurred, exhaustion pulling at me again, the weight of it almost impossible to fight.
The last thing I saw was Enzo’s face—his expression raw, something unreadable flickering in his eyes—before the darkness.