3. The Dream Room
The Dream Room
Damian
One moment, the mansion surrounded me, breathing with its silent intent. The next, it was gone.
The world ripped away, yanked from my grasp like fabric caught in the teeth of a storm.
And then, just as suddenly, it snapped back into place.
My boots hit uneven ground. I staggered, catching myself before I collapsed. The night air rushed in, cold and thick with damp stone and the acrid bite of tobacco smoke. Beneath it, something heavier—something familiar.
I didn’t need to look. I felt it first.
A weight settled deep in my gut, pressing against my ribs like an old memory clawing its way to the surface.
A slow breath. A steady exhale. I lifted my gaze.
The Beretti estate loomed before me.
I don’t know how or why, but I am here. Not watching from afar, not experiencing some distorted, dream-like version of reality. I am standing on Beretti territory as if I have walked straight into enemy ground.
The realization hit like a physical blow, but my body didn’t react beyond a tightening of my jaw. I had been here before. More than once. But never like this.
Not as a visitor. Not as a dream.
A few yards ahead, the estate’s iron gate stretched high, its spiked tips gleaming under the silver glow of the moon. Beyond it, the mansion sprawled wide, candlelight flickering from the windows, shadows shifting behind the glass.
It looked the same. But it wasn’t.
Everything felt too still. The air too heavy. The way the light pulsed behind the curtains—not natural, but measured.
My pulse remained steady, but my instincts tightened.
I glanced down. My hands were steady, solid. No distortion. No fading at the edges of my vision. No sense that I was losing grip on reality.
But that was the problem. This felt real.
The crunch of gravel beneath my boots. The distant murmur of voices threading through the balcony doors. The wind, cool against my skin.
If this was a dream, it wasn’t the kind that let you wake up until it was finished.
A slow breath. Assess. Adapt. Move.
I pressed myself into the shadows along the perimeter wall.
I had walked this property before—once as an uneasy ally, too many times as an enemy. I knew its blind spots, the weaknesses in its security. The places where a man could slip through unseen.
I paused behind a stone pillar, listening.
Above, footsteps echoed against marble. Tilting my head, I caught sight of two men stationed on the balcony. One leaned lazily against the railing, the glow of his cigarette bright in the dark. The other stood stiff, arms crossed, scanning the grounds like a predator searching for movement.
They didn’t see me. Not yet.
The Beretti estate’s security should have been tighter. That meant either they weren’t expecting a threat—or they already knew one was here.
I stayed low, body coiled tight.
A flicker of movement caught my eye.
The front door was ajar, light spilling onto the stone steps.
From this angle, I could see inside—the grand hall’s lavish interior, the polished wooden floors, the staircase stretching toward the upper levels.
It hadn’t changed.
And yet—something about it was wrong.
The chandeliers flickered, golden light pulsing like a dying heartbeat. The walls seemed to lean inward, stretching at the edges, as if the entire house was holding something beneath the surface of its silence.
I moved carefully, each step measured, my breath controlled. The mansion loomed ahead, its towering facade cut against the night sky, cold and immovable.
But the air had weight.
The kind of weight that listened.
I pressed my back against the stone wall, scanning the estate’s side entrance. The door was cracked open just enough to spill a wedge of warm light onto the cobblestone path. Faint voices rose from within—muffled by distance, but clear enough to pull me forward.
A conversation.
I stepped inside. The shift in temperature was immediate.
The crisp night air vanished, replaced by the estate’s suffocating warmth. Aged leather, faint cigar smoke, the distant bite of brandy. The scent felt like Beretti’s grip on the city—heavy, cloying, inescapable.
I reached the study’s doorway and paused.
Inside, two figures stood near the mahogany desk.
Antonio Beretti and someone else.
I adjusted my angle, just enough to see without exposing my position.
Antonio stood with his back to me, his posture relaxed, but his voice edged with irritation. His fingers traced along the edge of his desk, a slow, rhythmic motion—a habit he indulged only when calculating.
The other man was partially visible from my angle.
His suit was crisp, tailored to perfection. Antonio exhaled, the sound almost amused. “You’re certain he won’t see it coming?”
The other man nodded. “He trusts me. That’s his weakness.”
The words settled like a gun pressing against my spine. He was an informant, a traitor.
Antonio hummed in approval, shifting his weight. “Good. I want it done cleanly. No loose ends. The moment we have confirmation, we wipe out anyone who might come sniffing. His people, his assets—” He gestured vaguely, as if I were no more than an inconvenience to be erased.
I should feel anger. But I didn’t. I felt cold. I tucked the revelation away, locking it down for later. I would deal with the betrayal when the time was right.
For now, I listened.
From the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of a woman at the end of the hallway watching me with a steady, unreadable expression. No fear. No hesitation. Just measured curiosity, as if she’s trying to decide what to make of me.
For a moment, neither of us moves.
I take her in—the way the dim glow softens her features, her blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, the way she carries herself with quiet confidence. She doesn’t seem lost. She doesn’t seem afraid.
I open my mouth to speak, but something twists deep in my chest. Not fear. Not uncertainty.
Recognition.
It seizes me, sharp and unrelenting. But I don’t know her. I know that I don’t.
And yet she feels familiar.
She tilts her head slightly, her dark eyes narrowing—not in suspicion, but in quiet assessment. Then, at last, she speaks.
"Who are you?"
Her voice is smooth, composed, but there’s an edge beneath it—a blade wrapped in silk.
She is sizing me up, just as I am her.
I consider my response carefully. Truth? Deflection? A test of my own?
But something about her presence demands honesty. Or, at least, something close to it.
"Damian."
My name cuts through the stillness like a knife sliding into its sheath.
She studies me for a beat longer before nodding, more to herself than to me.
"Nichole."
At that moment, something started to shift. The air thickened. The candlelight flickered unnaturally.
The walls breathed at the edges of my vision.
A slow, creeping sensation slithered down my spine—not from the betrayal, but from the world itself.
The dream was changing.
I glanced down.
The floor beneath me was no longer polished wood. It was a golden mist spreading beneath my feet.
The voices in the study warped, twisting as if spoken underwater. Antonio’s features blurred at the edges, his movements too fluid, too unnatural.
The dream was collapsing.
I looked up at Nichole, but she was gone. Her presence stirred something deep inside me.
As the dream shattered in a flood of golden light, my final thought was how I couldn’t remember where I knew her from.
But I intend to find out.