14. The War Begins
The War Begins
Damian
I gasp awake, my body jerking violently as if I’ve been ripped from another world.
For a second, I don’t know where I am.
My heart hammers against my chest, a relentless pounding that drowns out everything else. My breaths are too quick, too sharp, my lungs fighting to keep up. Everything is too still. Too quiet.
The weight of Nichole’s presence is gone. The Nightmare Room. Dante’s twisted laughter. The blood. The screams. The fight for survival. Gone.
Instead, I feel sheets beneath my fingers, damp with sweat. A mattress—too soft, too real. The coolness of the night air filtering in through the open balcony doors, carrying the faint hum of the city beyond.
I blink hard, my mind catching up, grounding itself. I’m in my bed. In my penthouse. In the real world.
My chest rises and falls in heavy, uneven breaths as my brain scrambles to separate dream from reality. It felt like days. Weeks. But here—here, everything is exactly how I left it.
Then it hits me.
I turn my head toward the bedside clock, the red digital numbers glaring back at me.
4:23 a.m. I look at the date. It’s the next day. My chest tightens. That can’t be right.
I push myself up, my muscles protesting with a dull ache, my body still feeling the weight of the battles I fought. My fingers dig into the sheets as I try to make sense of it. One night.
Only one damn night.
But inside the Nightmare Room? It had felt like weeks. Days upon days of fighting, running, watching Nichole suffer through my demons while I suffered through hers. Endless torment. Endless pain.
I drag a hand over my face, my skin damp with sweat.
“What the hell…” I whisper, barely recognizing my own voice.
It doesn’t make sense. But then again, none of it ever did. The mansion, the rooms, the way the world twisted and bled between fear and desire—it was never meant to follow the laws of reality.
Nichole.
My breath catches.
She’s still there.
Still trapped in that world, waiting for me.
I clench my fists, my body tense with conflict. I need to get back to her, to that place where time bends, where my hands can still touch her, where she still exists for me.
But I can’t. Because Alessandra is real and she’s running out of time.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, my feet hitting the cold marble floor. The chill grounds me, pulling me further from the dream world, forcing me to focus on what’s real. What matters.
There’s no adjustment period. No moment to catch my breath.
I don’t need it.
The second I saw Alessandra in that warehouse, bound, bruised, surrounded by Beretti scum, the decision had already been made.
This war was set in motion the moment they took her.
I exhale sharply, my jaw locking as the weight of it settles into my chest. This isn’t about territory. It’s not about power or dominance.
This is personal.
I push myself up, rolling my shoulders, stretching my muscles, shaking off the ghost of the dream. The Nightmare Room is over.
Now, I’m stepping into a different kind of nightmare.
And this time, the monsters aren’t illusions.
They’re real.
And I’m about to remind them why they should fear me.
I don’t waste a second.
My hand moves before my mind even finishes processing, reaching for my phone on the nightstand. The cool glass presses against my palm, solid, grounding, a tether to the reality I’ve just woken into.
The line rings once.
Then—a sharp click.
“Boss?”
Enzo. Always fast. Always waiting.
“Get everyone. Now.” My voice is cold, absolute. No hesitation. No room for questions. “We move before the sun rises.”
There’s a slight pause, but it’s not from uncertainty. It’s from understanding.
Enzo doesn’t ask for details. He doesn’t need to.
Within minutes, I’m dressed and moving, my body locked into a rhythm I know too well. Suit up. Load up. Move out.
By the time I reach the study, the atmosphere has already shifted.
The air is thick, charged with something lethal.
Blueprints of Pier 31, Beretti’s known safe houses, and the dockyard’s layout are sprawled across the mahogany table. Markings, entry points, weak spots—all mapped out in red ink.
I barely notice my men filtering in, their movements silent, efficient. Enzo, Salvatore, Rocco—my lieutenants. Don’t speak, don’t ask questions.
They’re already at work.
Guns are laid out in careful rows. Silencers. Tactical gear. Combat knives. Every piece of equipment is accounted for.
No one says a word.
Because there’s nothing left to say.
We all know what’s coming.
I exhale slowly, my fingers tracing the edge of the blueprint, locking every detail into my mind. This isn’t just an assault.
It’s a message.
One the Berettis won’t live long enough to forget.
I grip my gun, the cold weight settling into my palm like an old companion. The metal is smooth, well-worn, a silent promise of what’s to come.
This won’t be a war of bullets and chaos.
There will be no warning.
No loud declarations. No grand displays of power.
The Berettis won’t see us coming.
I step back from the blueprint, letting the strategy unfold in my mind. Stealth. Shadows. Silent kills. The kind of attack that leaves no room for retaliation—only bodies left behind as a message.
I glance at Enzo, who’s loading up on silencers. Salvatore is double-checking the tactical gear, while Rocco secures our entry points. They already know the plan.
But I say it anyway.
“We move fast. We move quiet. We don’t waste bullets.”
My men nod, faces impassive, eyes sharp. Killers, every last one of them.
I roll my shoulders, my stance steady.
Tonight, I take back what’s mine.
I slide a fresh magazine into my gun, the metallic click sharp in the heavy silence. My movements are practiced, efficient—a ritual before bloodshed.
Everything is in place.
The plan is set.
My men are ready.
But as I secure my holster, my mind betrays me.
Nichole.
Her name slips through the cracks in my focus, uninvited, unwanted. Yet she’s there, lingering like a ghost in my thoughts.
I see her eyes in the dark, the way they held steady even in the worst of the nightmares. I feel her hand against my chest, grounding me, steadying me. I remember the way she whispered, "Save her."
Damn it.
I exhale sharply, pushing the thought away. This isn’t about emotions. It’s not about Nichole, or the way she’s wedged herself into a part of me I can’t seem to shake.
This is about Alessandra.
This is about war.
I step out into the cold night air, my breath steady, my pulse an unshakable rhythm in my chest.
The city is quiet—too quiet.
But the silence isn’t empty. It’s charged. The kind that comes before a storm, before the first drop of rain crashes into the earth, before the first body hits the ground.
My men are already waiting. Dressed in black. Armed. Deadly.
Enzo gives me a single nod. Salvatore tightens the strap on his holster. Rocco cracks his knuckles. No words are needed.
We all know what’s coming.
We move as one. A unit. A death sentence.
Tonight, the Berettis bleed.