10. Back to Reality
Back to Reality
Damian
I woke slowly, the weight of sleep still gripping me, refusing to let go. That disorienting moment between dreaming and waking stretched longer than it should have, my body caught in the lingering traces of a world that wasn’t real.
Except, it felt real.
The faint morning light filtered through the curtains, casting muted gold across the bedroom of my penthouse. The crisp scent of fresh linens filled the air, grounding me back in reality. But it wasn’t the sunlight that held me in place.
It was the memory of her.
Nichole.
The scent of her perfume still clung to my senses, a phantom trace of something I couldn’t shake.
I exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down my face, irritation simmering beneath my skin. This wasn’t me. I didn’t get distracted. I didn’t let myself get caught up in things I couldn’t control.
And yet, Nichole had embedded herself into my thoughts, lingering like a whisper I couldn’t quite silence.
The sharp buzz of my phone cut through the quiet, breaking whatever spell still had its hold on me. I reached for it, rolling my shoulders to shake off the last remnants of sleep.
Enzo’s voice came through the line, clipped and businesslike. “The Berettis are regrouping.”
That got my full attention.
I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, planting my elbows on my knees as my focus sharpened. “Go on.”
“They’re quiet, but they’re planning something. We can feel it.”
I exhaled slowly, my fingers pressing against my temples for a brief second before I forced my mind into action. Of course, Beretti wasn’t going to sit back after what happened. That would’ve been too easy.
“Double the guards at the safe houses,” I ordered, already thinking five steps ahead.
Enzo didn’t argue. He never did. He was already anticipating my response. “And Antonio’s son?”
That was the real issue.
Dante Beretti. Young, ambitious, and reckless enough to be dangerous. He had something to prove—his father’s shadow stretching over him like a curse, demanding vengeance, demanding power. I knew his type.
And his type always got people killed.
“Keep an eye on him,” I said, my voice cold. “He’s too ambitious for his own good.”
A pause on the other end of the line. Then Enzo’s quiet acknowledgment. “Understood.”
The call ended with a click, but the weight of responsibility remained.
I sat there for a moment, the phone still in my hand, staring at the floor as my thoughts split down the middle.
On one side—the war brewing with the Berettis.
On the other—Nichole.
I pushed up from the bed, the sheets falling away as I crossed the room toward the balcony.
The cold morning air hit my skin instantly, sharp and bracing, but I welcomed it.
I gripped the railing, staring out over the city skyline, my mind still tangled between the reality in front of me and the dream that felt just as real.
The world out here was heavier with each passing day.
And I couldn’t ignore it anymore—
The pull the Dream Room had on me was growing stronger.
The sun cast long shadows across my study, filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows and painting the room in a golden glow. The air smelled of aged leather, espresso, and the faint traces of the last cigar I had crushed out the day before. It was a space of control, of order.
But right now, it felt like a battlefield.
Because Alessandra was here.
Perched on the edge of my desk, arms crossed, sharp eyes locked onto me like she was dissecting every inch of my posture, my expression—looking for a crack. She didn’t bother with pleasantries. She never did when she sensed something was off.
“You’ve been distracted,” she said, her voice cool but edged with accusation.
I didn’t look up from the reports in front of me, keeping my expression blank as I scanned security updates, supply chain figures, and the list of men assigned to reinforce our safe houses. All of it should have had my full attention.
But my mind kept slipping—to the Dream Room. To Nichole.
I ground my teeth, shoving the thought away as I set my pen down with deliberate precision. “I’m handling it.”
Alessandra let out a soft scoff, shifting her weight slightly. “That’s not an answer.”
My patience was already stretched thin. “It’s the only one you’re getting.”
She didn’t flinch, didn’t move, didn’t so much as blink. That was the thing about my sister—she was just as relentless as I was. Maybe even more.
“You’re obsessing over something,” she continued, her voice quieter now, too knowing. “And it’s not just the Berettis. What’s going on?”
For a second—just a fraction of a second—I considered telling her.
About the Dream Room. About Nichole. About the way my nights had started bleeding into my days, how the lines between reality and whatever the hell this was had begun to blur.
But Alessandra wasn’t the type to entertain fantasies. She dealt in hard facts, in calculations, in what is—not in the impossible.
And the last thing I needed was her thinking I was losing my damn mind.
“It’s nothing.”
The lie came too smoothly, my voice even, controlled. But she didn’t buy it. I saw it in the way her expression flickered for just a second, doubt tightening at the edges of her sharp features.
I stood, adjusting the cuffs of my dress shirt, shifting the conversation away before she could pry any further. “Focus on your own safety. I’ve got everything under control.”
Alessandra’s lips pressed into a thin line. She knew me too well to believe that.
But she also knew when to back off.
For now.
She slid off the desk, her heels clicking softly against the hardwood floor as she moved toward the door. Before leaving, she turned back, her voice softer, but firm. “You’d better.”
I said nothing as she walked out, the study door clicking shut behind her.
For a long moment, I stayed exactly where I was, my fingers pressed against the surface of my desk, my pulse steady but my thoughts anything but.
Because no matter how much I tried to push it away—
I wasn’t in control.
The rhythmic thud of my fists slamming into the heavy bag filled the private gym, each impact sharp, precise—controlled violence. I needed this. I needed the burn in my muscles, the sting in my knuckles, something to focus on other than the storm brewing in my head.
No matter how much I tried to push everything aside, it kept coming back.
The Berettis. Their looming retaliation. The weight of an inevitable war that would leave bodies in its wake.
Claudio. His betrayal. The way he had begged in his last moments, the sharp crack of a gunshot still echoing in my skull.
And then—Nichole.
I exhaled sharply, my grip tightening on the wraps around my hands before I landed another brutal strike.
"Maybe I’m not the only one hiding something."
Her voice from the gala looped in my mind like a goddamn riddle, a whisper that refused to leave me. I threw another punch—harder. The bag swung wildly, rattling on its chain.
Sweat trickled down my temple, my breathing sharp and measured, but the tension inside me refused to ease.
The solitude of the gym should have helped. This was one of the only places I could force my body to exhaustion, drown out the noise, regain control.
But tonight?
Tonight, it wasn’t enough.
I stepped back, rolling my shoulders, shaking out my hands. The dimly lit gym was silent except for the faint hum of the overhead lights, the scent of leather and sweat thick in the air.
Still, I could feel it. The pressure pressing down on me, the weight of something just beyond my reach.
And then—the door creaked open.
I didn’t have to turn around to know who it was.
Enzo.
His footsteps were slow, deliberate, carrying the same weight they always did. The kind that told me whatever he was about to say wasn’t good.
I reached for the towel on the nearby bench, dragging it across my face as he stepped inside.
“We’ve got a lead on Antonio’s son,” he said, grim.
That got my attention.
I tossed the towel aside, straightening. “When?”
“Tonight.” He didn’t hesitate. “He’s been spotted meeting with a faction we thought was neutral.”
Dante Beretti.
Young. Arrogant. Reckless.
If he was reaching outside the family for allies, it meant one thing—he was desperate. And desperate men were dangerous.
“They’re planning something big.” Enzo’s voice was calm, but I could feel the underlying tension.
My fingers curled into fists, the raw energy in my body shifting from frustration to cold, lethal focus.
I turned toward him, my voice steady. “Get everyone ready. We move now.”
The moment Enzo confirmed the lead, my focus locked in. The Dream Room, Nichole, the pull dragging me toward something I couldn’t explain—none of it mattered now. This was war.
I moved swiftly through the estate, my steps sharp and controlled. My men were already gathering in the main hall, their murmured conversations cutting short the second I entered. Their postures straightened, their gazes shifted to me, waiting.
I didn’t keep them waiting long.
“Dante Beretti is making moves,” I stated, my voice carrying through the room, cold and final. “We don’t know the full extent of his plan, but we know one thing—he’s getting bold.”
A few nods of understanding. A murmur of agreement. They knew what was at stake. They knew the war with the Berettis had never truly ended—it had just been waiting for the next trigger.
I let my gaze sweep across the room, taking in each man standing before me. Loyal. Unflinching. Ready.
“That means we shut this down,” I continued, my voice unwavering. “Before he has the chance to make his next move.”
I laid out the plan quickly, directing teams to key locations, ensuring our safe houses were reinforced, our assets secured. I wasn’t leaving a single opening. Not for Dante. Not for anyone.
The room erupted into motion as my men dispersed, weapons checked, plans finalized, orders given. Everything was falling into place.
And yet—something wasn’t sitting right.