7. The Trap Set
The Trap Set
Damian
Instead of Nichole being the first thought after our beautiful encounter in her garden, I woke with the taste of rage on my tongue.
It was thick, bitter, lingering like the last traces of a nightmare I couldn’t shake.
The room was silent, but the tension in my body told me I had been fighting something in my sleep—something that hadn’t let go even after I opened my eyes.
Antonio Beretti.
The low murmur of voices.
The weight of betrayal thick in the air.
I had been seconds away from seeing the face of the rat—seconds from knowing who had sold me out. And then I woke up.
I sat up, my muscles coiled tight, my fingers curling into fists as I tried to shake off the frustration clawing at my ribs.
The mattress shifted beneath me, but my body remained rigid, my mind racing too fast to let go of the anger simmering beneath my skin.
Someone in my organization had betrayed me. That much I knew.
And when I found them?
I would teach them the price of betrayal.
Exhaling slowly, I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, the cold floor grounding me in the present.
The air in my room was thick, charged with something unspoken—like even the walls knew what was coming.
My fingers flexed once, then released. Control.
I needed control. My emotions were a weapon, but I wouldn’t let them turn into a liability.
I got to my feet and moved through the darkened room, the glow of the city outside casting long shadows across the walls. A glance at my watch told me it was just past four in the morning, but sleep wasn’t an option. Not with this fire burning in my gut.
I reached for my phone, scrolling through the encrypted messages that had come in overnight. Nothing yet. No movements from the Berettis. No whispers of a leak. My jaw ticked as I tossed the device onto my desk.
The dream had been a warning.
A glimpse into something I wasn’t supposed to see.
And I intended to answer it in blood.
By the time I reached the conference room, the air inside was already heavy, the kind of silence that came before a storm.
My men were seated around the long mahogany table, their postures tense, their gazes sharp with quiet calculation.
They knew something was off. I had called this meeting last minute, early enough that even my most disciplined captains hadn’t had time to prepare. That was intentional.
I wanted to see their reactions.
I took my seat at the head of the table, my movements slow, deliberate, letting the silence stretch until they felt it.
The weight of it. The inevitability of what was coming.
My fingers laced together as I leaned forward, my gaze sweeping across the room, cataloging every shift in posture, every flicker of unease.
The tension coiled tighter.
Good.
Then, when the air was stretched so thin it felt like it might snap, I spoke.
“We have a problem.”
The words were quiet, measured. But they landed like a gunshot.
No one moved. No one even fucking breathed.
I let the silence drag, let it sink into their skin. They needed to feel it. The reality of it.
Then, finally, I leaned back. “Someone in this room,” I continued, my voice smooth as glass, “has been feeding information to Antonio Beretti.”
The reaction was subtle. Controlled. These were not men who flinched easily. But I saw it—the slight stiffening of shoulders, the shift in gazes, the way some men forced themselves to remain still. Like prey sensing a predator nearby.
I exhaled slowly, tapping a single finger against the table. “Beretti has details he shouldn’t have. Things only a select few have access to.” My gaze sharpened. “That means one of you—” I paused, letting the accusation hang between us like a blade, “—sold me out.”
More silence.
No denials. No excuses.
Because none of them were stupid enough to think words would save them now.
The men at this table had seen what I did to traitors before. They had heard the stories. They had watched bodies disappear, one by one, erased from existence like they had never mattered at all.
And yet, someone had still made a choice.
A slow smirk curled at the corner of my mouth, though there was no warmth in it. “We’re going to find out who.”
A ripple of unease passed through the room. Barely there. But I caught it.
I let the words settle before leaning forward again, my forearms braced against the smooth surface of the table.
“There will be a shipment tomorrow night,” I said, my voice calm, controlled.
“A high-value arms deal. Strategic location. Limited intel.” I paused, my gaze flicking between them.
“Only a handful of people will know the details.”
The trap was set.
And when Beretti’s men showed up to steal it?
I’d have my answer.
Enzo was the first to break the silence, his voice steady, unreadable. “And when we find the rat?”
I didn’t blink. Didn’t hesitate.
A single, quiet breath. Then—
“Lo facciamo soffrire.”We make them suffer.
The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
Enzo didn’t flinch, but I saw the slight shift in his jaw. The flicker of understanding in his eyes. He knew what that meant. Knew exactly how this was going to play out.
One by one, my men absorbed the information, their expressions impassive, but their energy shifting. Some looked angry. Others uneasy. But the only one who mattered—the only one I was watching—was the one who was about to slip.
The guilty one.
I rose from my seat, slow and deliberate, feeling the weight of every movement.
“This is your only warning,” I murmured, my voice quiet, deadly. “Whoever it is, wherever they are hiding—you have one night to come forward.”
No one spoke.
Good. Because when this was over, when I finally had my answers?
There would be no mercy. Only fire. And I would make sure they burned.
The night was cold, but the fury burning inside me was colder. I stood in my private office, staring at the city beyond the estate walls, watching as the lights flickered in the distance. Somewhere out there, a man who had sworn loyalty to me had already chosen his fate. He just didn’t know it yet.
I exhaled slowly, rolling my shoulders back, forcing my focus onto the present. The plan was already in motion. By this time tomorrow, I would have my answer.
A soft knock at the door. Expected.
“Enter.”
Enzo stepped inside, his usual calm exterior unshaken, though his eyes carried something sharper. He was good at hiding his thoughts, but I knew him too well. He didn’t like this.
“Everything’s in place,” he said.
I turned, leaning against the edge of my desk, arms crossed. “Any resistance?”
He shook his head. “No. But there’s talk.”
“Talk?” My tone was deceptively light.
Enzo exhaled through his nose. “Some of the men… they’re uneasy.”
I studied him. “You have a problem with it?”
His jaw tensed, just slightly. “I have a problem with rats. But I also know what this will do.”
I tilted my head. “And what will this do, Enzo?”
His answer was blunt. “It’ll make them afraid.”
A slow, dark smile curled at my lips. “Bene.”
Because fear was useful.
And by the time this was over, it would be the only thing left.