4. Waking Reality
Waking Reality
Damian
I wake with a gasp, my chest lurching as if I’ve been dragged from deep water.
The world slowly into focus—fluorescent lights, the sharp scent of antiseptic, the sound of the heart monitor.
Its steady beep, beep, beep claws me back from the abyss, dragging me into a reality that feels harsher, colder, and emptier than the one I just left.
I inhale sharply, my chest rising with a force that sends a spike of pain lancing through it.
My body jerks, reacting to the sudden awareness of my surroundings—the sterile scent of antiseptic, the cool press of IV lines against my skin, the dim hospital lighting casting long, sterile shadows across the room.
The Dream Room is gone.
I blink against the brightness, my vision adjusting to the stark reality of the hospital bed, the wires, the rhythmic hum of machines keeping track of my existence. My limbs feel heavy, weighed down by something that is more than just injury.
The golden glow—the mansion—the Dream Room—
It felt real. Too real.
A sharp inhale from across the room gets my attention. I’m not alone.
I turn my head—too fast—and the dull ache in my skull roars to life. My eyes land on a figure slouched in a chair near the window.
Enzo.
His broad shoulders are hunched forward, elbows resting on his knees, his expression carved from exhaustion. Dark circles stain the skin beneath his eyes, his usual sharp presence dulled by something I can’t quite place.
The second my gaze locks onto him, his head snaps up, his eyes narrowing in something between relief and frustration.
“Jesus, Damian.” His voice is rough, gravel against stone. He drags a hand down his face before letting out a sigh, sitting up straight. Tension rolls off of him in waves, but he doesn’t move closer.
For a moment, I don’t speak.
Because I’m still adjusting. Still processing. Still trying to separate what was a dream and what is reality.
I press my palm against the stiff sheets beneath me, grounding myself. The pain in my chest is real. The IV is real. The cold, artificial light that does nothing to warm my skin is real.
But I swear—I can still feel the warmth of the Dream Room.
“What happened after the hit?” My voice is hoarse, as if it hasn’t been used in days.
Enzo watches me for a second, his brows furrowing before he answers.
“You went down. We barely got out of there alive.” His fingers tap once against the armrest, a quiet sign of his frustration. “We managed to fight them off, but it was bad. Real bad. You almost didn’t make it.”
The weight of his words settles into my chest, but it doesn’t shake me as much as it should because my mind is elsewhere—not on the attack, but on what I saw in the Dream Room.
Antonio. His office. His plan.
The conversation that should have been impossible to hear—yet I did.
I shift slightly in the bed, testing my strength. It’s there but dulled, like a blade in need of sharpening. “How long has it been?”
Enzo sighs. “Three days.”
The answer is a punch to the gut.
Three days.
I swallow the disbelief, forcing my mind to stay sharp. The Dream Room felt like minutes. Hours, maybe. But I was gone for three days.
That realization sends a fresh wave of tension through me.
“The Berettis.” My voice is steadier now, the edge of command slipping back into place. “They planned this. Antonio planned this.”
Enzo nods, his expression grim. “And he’s got someone on the inside.”
A slow, simmering rage coils in my chest.
I already knew that.
I knew it before I woke up. Before Enzo confirmed it. Before I even had a chance to interrogate my own people.
Because I was there, I heard Antonio speak those words. I stood in that office, unseen, unheard, watching the pieces of a war I didn’t realize I was losing fall into place.
But I can’t tell Enzo that.
Not yet.
The silence between me and Enzo stretches, thick with unspoken words.
The weight of what he just told me should feel heavier—a betrayal inside my own ranks, a setup designed to put me in the ground. It should be the only thing on my mind.
That fact sits uneasily in my chest, like a loaded gun pressed against my ribs.
I don’t have time to pick it apart.
Instead, I shift in the bed, pushing myself upright despite the dull ache in my chest. Enzo tenses, like he’s expecting me to collapse, but I don’t. I sigh, testing my strength, and it’s there—sharper than it should be.
Enzo leans forward slightly. “You shouldn’t be moving yet.”
I glance at him. “I don’t have time to lie around.”
His brows pull together. “You almost died, Damian.”
I meet his gaze, steady and unwavering. “But I didn’t.”
Something flickers across his face—frustration, maybe. Or something closer to unease. He shakes his head, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “You’re too calm about this.”
I don’t answer right away because I know he’s right. I should be angrier. I should be demanding answers. But what’s the point when I already know them?
Enzo exhales sharply. “You ever going to tell me what’s going on in your head?”
I let the silence stretch a beat longer before responding. “When I figure it out, I’ll let you know.”
It’s not a lie. But it’s not the truth either.
The door creaks open as a nurse steps inside, a clipboard in her hands, her expression carefully neutral. She moves with a practiced ease, like someone used to navigating around men who carry too much weight on their shoulders.
"Mr. LaCampanella," she says, her tone even but professional. "We need to check your vitals. Doctor’s orders."
I don’t move. I don’t answer. Because for the first time since waking up, I realize how unnatural it feels to be in this room.
The fluorescent lighting, the sterile scent of antiseptic, the mechanical rhythm of the heart monitor—all of it feels too distant.
Like I don’t belong here.
Like I should still be somewhere else.
Enzo gives me a look that’s part amusement, part concern. "You gonna let her do her job, or you planning to scare the poor girl into quitting?"
I loosen my grip on the hospital sheets. Focus. Ground yourself.
This is reality.
I nod once, a small movement, and the nurse steps forward, checking the IV line, adjusting the machines, pressing cool fingers against my wrist to check my pulse.
Her touch is real. The beeping of the monitor is real.
The nurse finishes her exam and jots something down on the clipboard. "Everything looks stable. You’re recovering faster than expected."
She hesitates, glancing at me, then at Enzo, before adding, "The doctor will be in soon to discuss your discharge." Then heads for the door.
That catches my attention.
I glance at Enzo, who gives me a knowing look. We both understand what this means.
Hospitals aren’t safe for men like me.
Not for long.
The door clicks shut behind her, leaving me and Enzo alone again.
The moment she’s gone, I shift, forcing myself upright despite the stiffness in my muscles. Enzo moves instinctively, ready to stop me, but I wave him off.
"Start digging." My voice is steady, controlled. "Someone sold me out. I want names."
Enzo’s jaw tightens, but he nods. "Already on it. We’re working from the inside out. Everyone who had eyes on the meeting, anyone who could have known where you’d be. We’ll find them."
“I’m leaving tonight.”
His smirk fades. “Like hell you are.”
I push the blankets back, shifting to sit up. The IV tugs against my arm, but I ignore it. “I don’t have time to sit here waiting for more tests.”
Enzo leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You got shot in the chest three days ago. You don’t walk away from that like it’s a hangover.”
I meet his gaze, unwavering. “I do.”
He exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. “You’re impossible, you know that?”
“Yeah,” I mutter, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. “And you’re predictable. Once the doctor comes in, go get the car.”
Enzo shakes his head, but he doesn’t argue further. Because we both know the truth—I don’t stay down. Not when there’s a war brewing.
The buzz of fluorescent lighting hums against my skull, a faint, pulsing rhythm that doesn’t belong to the machines monitoring my vitals.
The air is cold and sterile, with a faint scent of disinfectant that does nothing to mask the room's underlying staleness.
Across from me, a doctor stands with a clipboard. His white coat is crisp, and his features are carefully unreadable.
I don’t trust men who hesitate before they speak.
He adjusts his glasses, glancing between me and the scans he holds. "We ran a full MRI as a precaution, given the nature of your injuries."
I say nothing.
Because we both know what he’s not saying.
I shouldn’t be sitting here, alert, conscious, breathing without effort. I should still be on a ventilator.
Instead, I feel fine. More than fine. I feel strong. Rested. As if my body has no memory of the bullet that nearly killed me.
The doctor clears his throat. "Your scans came back… unusual."
I tilt my head slightly, watching him carefully. "Define unusual."
He hesitates again.
I don’t break eye contact.
Finally, he sighs, shifting his weight. "There are abnormalities in your brain activity. Areas of heightened neural activity that—frankly—shouldn’t be possible.
" He taps the scans with the edge of his pen, flipping through them with precise movements.
"We found hyperactivity in regions associated with memory retrieval, subconscious processing, and—interestingly—lucid dreaming. "
My pulse doesn’t change, but my muscles tense.
Lucid dreaming.
I lean back slightly, my expression unreadable. "And?"
For the first time, the doctor looks at me like I’m something he can’t explain. Something he can’t define with science alone.
I don’t react. I don’t speak. I let the silence stretch just long enough to make him uncomfortable.
Then, I sigh, rolling my shoulders slightly, testing the strength in my limbs.
"So what does that mean?" My voice is calm, even.
The doctor frowns, flipping through the MRI scans one more time before shaking his head. "I don’t know. I’d like to keep you under observation, run more tests, see if—"
"No."
I cut him off before he could finish.
Because I already know where this is going.
I don’t have time to be poked and prodded like a science experiment.
He frowns, but I don’t give him room to argue. "I’m checking out today."
The finality in my tone makes something flash behind his eyes: disapproval, frustration, maybe even a trace of fear.
"I highly recommend against that.” With his voice clipped, he says, "You just got out of surgery and still need monitoring."
I hold his gaze, unshaken. "Noted."
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t push. He just scribbles something on his chart, mutters something under his breath, and finally turns toward the door.
"Your body is recovering faster than it should be from a gunshot wound, but I’ll warn you now—" He glances back at me, his eyes sharp. "Just because you feel fine doesn’t mean you are. Something is happening to you. And whatever it is—it isn’t normal."
Then, he walks out.
The door clicks shut behind him, leaving me alone with the weight of his words.
I glance at the IV in my arm. I don’t need it. I don’t need any of this as I slowly pull the IV out.
Because I already know what’s happening to me.
And the answer isn’t in an MRI scan.
It’s in the Dream Room.
I pull my shirt over my head, careful not to disturb the bandages wrapped around my chest. The pain is faint—an echo of something that should still be raw.
I roll my shoulders, testing the stiffness in my limbs and the way my muscles respond without hesitation.
A sharp knock at the door pulls me from my thoughts.
I already know who it is before he speaks.
"You ready to go, boss?"
I push off the bed, testing my balance. My legs are solid beneath me, stronger than they should be. The pain in my chest is a dull ache, not the searing agony it should be after taking a bullet.
Enzo stands, arms crossed. He’s watching me, waiting for me to collapse or admit that I’m not as fine as I say I am. But I don’t. And I don’t back down.
“You really gonna do this?” he asks, voice low.
I meet his gaze. “Yeah.”
A long pause stretches between us. Enzo exhales sharply, muttering a curse under his breath. Then he reaches into his jacket and tosses me a shirt. “Fine. But you’d better not pass out on me. I’m not carrying your ass out of here.”
I smirk, pulling the shirt over my head, careful of the bandages wrapped around my torso. “Good to know you care.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles. “Let’s move before the doctor decides to strap you to that bed.”
I step toward the door, pausing just before opening it. My instincts are sharp, my awareness heightened. I don’t know if it’s adrenaline or something else, but I can feel the shift in the air. Like the moment before a gunfight.
I glance at Enzo. “Clear?”
He nods. “Took care of it. We’re ghosts.”
I push the door open, stepping into the dimly lit hallway. The nurses’ station is empty, and the overhead speakers crackle faintly with some distant announcement. Too easy.
We move quickly, silently. Enzo leads the way, his posture relaxed but alert. I follow, each step bringing me closer to the exit, closer to the world outside, closer to the truth waiting for me in the Dream Room.
As we push through the final set of doors, the cold night air rushes in, sharp and grounding. A black car idles at the curb, the engine humming softly.
Enzo nods toward it. “Your chariot awaits.”
I slide into the passenger seat, exhaling slowly as the weight of the hospital lifts from my shoulders. But even as we pull away, my mind isn’t on the road ahead.
It’s on the golden glow that lingers at the edges of my vision.
A strange pull tugs at my chest. The dream is calling to me, whispering in the space between my thoughts. I want to go back. I need to.
Because if I’m right—if what I saw wasn’t just a hallucination—then I might already be ahead of the game.
And that changes everything.