5. A Warning
A Warning
Damian
The drive back to my apartment is silent.
Enzo doesn’t push for conversation, and I don’t offer one. My mind isn’t here—it’s caught somewhere between two realities, trapped in the pull of something I don’t understand but can’t ignore.
The Dream.
It didn’t just take me—it changed me.
It gave me answers I never asked for, ones I shouldn’t have, and now, it lingers. A shadow at the edge of my thoughts. A presence I can still feel, just out of reach.
I flex my fingers against my leg, exhaling slowly. The MRI confirmed something in my brain isn’t functioning the way it should. But this isn’t medical trauma. It isn’t the result of the bullet wound or a near-death experience.
This is something else. Which means I need to go back.
When we pull up in front of my building, Enzo shifts in his seat, watching me with veiled scrutiny. He doesn’t like this. He doesn’t like any of it.
“You need anything?” His fingers drum lightly against the steering wheel.
I shake my head. “Just time.”
He exhales through his nose, jaw tight. He doesn’t say what he’s really thinking—that I walked out of a hospital three days after nearly bleeding out, that I move like nothing happened, that I shouldn’t be this strong.
I don’t blame him. But I don’t have time to explain.
I push the car door open and step out, shutting it behind me before he can say anything else.
By the time I make it inside, the tension in my chest is already building.
The Dream isn’t a hallucination. It isn’t a byproduct of trauma.
It’s real. And this time I’m not waiting for it to pull me in.
I’m forcing my way through.
The pull of exhaustion is absolute. The lingering haze of painkillers dulls the edges of my mind, dragging me under before I can resist.
But I don’t fall into darkness.
There’s no gradual descent, no slow unraveling of consciousness.
Instead I’m somewhere else.
My boots hit pavement, solid and real beneath me. The air is thick with the scent of oil, metal, and something sharper—the faint trace of gasoline carried by the night breeze.
I know this place. A warehouse. Not just any warehouse. One of Antonio Beretti’s.
The shift from my apartment to this moment is seamless, so unnervingly smooth that for a second, I question whether I was ever truly awake at all.
But the cold wind against my skin is real.
The distant hum of a generator is real.
The sharp glint of security cameras perched along the rooftop’s edge is real.
My pulse remains steady, but my instincts fire, my body already moving like it knows what to do.
This isn’t just a dream.
The realization settles deep in my chest—not fear, not confusion, but something colder.
Something calculated. I don’t hesitate.
I move forward, my steps soundless against the pavement, my body falling into old habits. The ones honed from years of working in the shadows. The ones that know the difference between a ghost and a corpse is how well you go unseen.
The warehouse looms ahead, steel doors locked shut, walls lined with reinforced plating. I know this structure. I know what Beretti uses it for.
Weapons. Drugs. Bodies, if the price is right.
I reach the entrance and pause, my fingers brushing over the iron handle: Cold. Solid. Grounding.
I squeeze once, testing the weight, and push forward.
The door gives with a whisper of steel.
Inside, muffled voices guide me deeper into enemy territory.
And this time I'm not going to be just a spectator.
The air inside the warehouse is stale with dust, metal, and the sharp tang of oil.
It clings to my skin, settling into my clothes, pressing against me like an invisible weight.
I move through the shadows, careful, controlled.
My body falls into the familiar rhythm of stealth and silence, instincts honed from years of living in the space between survival and war.
The voices ahead draw me in. Low. Deliberate.
A narrow strip of yellow light spills through the cracked door of an office tucked into the far corner of the warehouse. I press myself into the shadows, breath slow and measured, listening.
Inside, Antonio Beretti sits at a dimly lit table, his suit crisp despite the grit of the warehouse.
His fingers drum against the wood, a slow, impatient rhythm.
Papers and maps are scattered before him, a half-empty glass of scotch within reach.
His posture is relaxed, but his expression is anything but.
Smug. Confident. Arrogant. He’s enjoying this.
I shift slightly, angling for a better view. Across from Antonio sits another man—a shadowed figure, his back to me. He’s hunched slightly over the table, presence restrained, calculated. Unlike Antonio, he isn’t basking in the moment. He’s controlling it.
Antonio exhales, leaning forward. His voice is laced with satisfaction. “Tonight’s the night.”
The words are like glass against my skin.
He taps a finger against the map, tracing invisible lines along its surface. His confidence is a knife’s edge, cutting through the dimly lit space.
“We’ll cripple the LaCampanellas for good.”
Rage flares beneath my ribs, sharp and searing.
I keep my breathing steady, my fists clenched at my sides.
The figure across from him moves, tapping his own fingers against the table, pointing to various locations on the map.
His voice is lower, more controlled—a whisper of treachery sliding between the shadows.
I strain to hear.
"Strike here… vulnerability in the east… His shipments… they’re unprotected on Sundays…"
His hand shifts, his movements precise, practiced.
"Take him out piece by piece."
I don’t recognize the voice—not yet—but the way Antonio listens tells me everything. This isn’t just business. This is an execution.
Antonio smirks, nodding along, swirling the amber liquid in his glass before taking a slow sip. “You’ve done your homework,” he muses. “I like the way you think. And you’re sure he won’t see it coming?”
The figure doesn’t hesitate. "He trusts me. That’s his weakness."
The words land like a blow, but I don’t flinch.
Because I already knew someone betrayed me.
Now, I just need to know who.
My muscles coil, patience hanging by a thread.
I inch forward, careful not to make a sound, keeping to the edges of the doorway.
The dim glow of the office flickers slightly, the shadows stretching unnaturally along the walls.
Antonio shifts in his seat, watching the figure like he’s weighing his worth.
Then, for a second—just long enough to see—he turns slightly.
A ring.
Thick silver, resting on his right hand—the same one pointing at the map. A family ring. One that belongs to each of my own men.
A quiet, burning certainty settles into my gut.
I have my first clue. But before I can move, before I can push forward—
A hand grips my shoulder. I react instantly, twisting, my body ready to strike—
But I stop. Because it’s her.
Nichole.
Inside the office, the tension thickens, stretching like a wire pulled too tight, waiting for the inevitable snap.
Antonio watches the shadowed figure, his expression unreadable, but it’s the man himself who unsettles me.
He doesn’t speak, doesn’t shift—he only tilts his head slightly, as if sensing something.
As if he knows he’s being watched.
I don’t move. Neither does Nichole. Her grip on my shoulder is firm but not restraining, more of a silent message than an order. Stay hidden. Stay patient.
But patience has never been my strength.
The adjoining door to the office swings open, and a new voice enters the fray. “We’ve got everything we need.”
I recognize the voice before I see him.
Antonio’s son, Dante Beretti.
His presence is careless, arrogant, a sharp contrast to the controlled silence dominating the room. He strides inside, a document clutched in his hand, handing it off to his father like a trophy. There’s unmistakable satisfaction in his tone, the kind that makes my blood simmer beneath my skin.
Antonio takes the paper, his eyes flicking over the contents. Slowly, deliberately, a smirk stretches across his face. He taps his fingers against the rim of his scotch glass, the gesture thoughtful. Whatever is on that paper, it’s important.
I need to see it.
My muscles coil, every nerve on edge. My instincts scream at me to move before it’s too late. Nichole hasn’t spoken, but I feel her watching me, reading my intent before I even act.
I keep my voice low, sharp. “I need to see who the mole is.”
She doesn’t answer.
Her gaze holds mine for a beat longer, but there’s no agreement in it. Only something colder. A warning.
But I don’t care.
Logic should catch up with me. I should wait, bide my time, think through my approach. But I don’t.
Because Antonio is about to sign off on something that will dismantle everything I’ve built.
I move.
Before Nichole can stop me, before my own restraint can hold me back, I push forward, my gun already drawn.
The air inside the office shifts the second I breach the threshold. The conversation halts. Antonio’s eyes widen. The shadowed figure stiffens.
I don’t give them time to react.
I go straight for the mole.
Grabbing his chair, I twist him around, forcing his face into the dim glow of the warehouse lights.
The moment stretches—hangs in the air just long enough for me to see.
And then—
Everything is ripped away.
I jolt upright, gasping.
The room around me is dark, silent but for the faint hum of the city beyond the estate walls. My sheets are tangled, damp with sweat, my chest rising and falling in rapid succession. It takes a full second to remember—I’m not in the warehouse.
I’m home.
The heavy drapes are drawn, but a sliver of moonlight sneaks through, casting a thin silver line across the wooden floor. The familiar scent of leather and aged wood settles around me, grounding me in the present. I sigh in frustration.
I was so close.
So close to seeing the mole’s face. So close to knowing who sold me out.
Now, I have nothing.
Nothing except the image of Antonio’s smirk burned into my mind.
The cold weight of betrayal pressing deep in my chest. My jaw tightens, fingers curling into the sheets.
The dream had given me a lead—a moment, a glimpse of truth—but then it yanked it away, leaving me stranded with more questions than answers.
And then there was her.
Nichole.
She had been there again. Silent, unreadable, watching me. She had warned me, tried to hold me back—not to stop me from learning the truth, but from moving too soon.
Why?
I shake my head, pushing off the bed. The cool air rushes against my bare skin as I stand, stretching my muscles, feeling the residual tension still coiled in my chest. My pulse thrums in my ears, my body charged with the lingering adrenaline of a fight I never finished.
I pace toward the window, resting a hand against the glass.
The city sprawls below, distant lights flickering against the darkness.
Somewhere out there, Antonio is preparing his next move.
Somewhere out there, the mole is still walking free, wearing my trust like a second skin, waiting for the perfect moment to tear me apart from the inside.
I inhale slowly, steadying my breath.
I need to get back in.
The Dream Room isn’t done with me, and I sure as hell am not done with it. It gave me a glimpse, a clue, and that means I can get more.
I clench my jaw, determination burning through the frustration. I have to try again.
Turning from the window, I move back to the bed, lying down with purpose. The tension in my body resists the idea of rest, but I force myself to exhale, to slow my thoughts, to let exhaustion take hold.
I shut my eyes and I will myself to return. But sleep doesn’t come easily.
I lie still, my body tense beneath the sheets, my mind fighting the unnatural pull of exhaustion.
Every time I close my eyes, I expect the Dream Room to take me—to pull me under, to drop me back into the shadows of that warehouse, to give me the answer I was so close to seizing. But nothing happens.
Minutes stretch to hours. My pulse remains steady, my breath controlled, but the shift never comes. The golden glow, the seamless transition from reality to the Dream Room—it’s gone.
My fingers curl into the sheets in frustration. It had let me in before, pulling me under like I belonged there. But now, when I need it the most, it’s shutting me out.
I force myself to relax, to breathe through the tension. Maybe I need to let go. Maybe I need to stop trying so damn hard and let the Dream Room take me on its own terms.
I exhale slowly, sinking deeper into the mattress. My mind drifts, not into sleep, but into the hazy space just beneath it—that strange, weightless moment where reality softens at the edges, where thoughts blur and time loses meaning.
The shift was subtle at first, like the second before a fall and the world pulls you under.
And just like that, I’m back. Only this time, I’m not where I left off.
The office is gone. Antonio is gone. The map, the conversation, the betrayal—it’s all disappeared into the ether. Instead, I’m somewhere deeper. I inhale, but not the scent of oil and cold metal. Rather, the sweet smell of jasmine.
I scan my surroundings, my instincts sharpening. The space is silent, but it isn’t empty. Someone else is here.
A shadow shifts at the edge of my vision with a faint glow up ahead
The Dream Room may have brought me back—but I’m not alone.