17. The Battle for Alessandra
The Battle for Alessandra
Damian
Gunfire cracks through the warehouse like a relentless storm, the sharp pop of suppressed rounds blending with the harsher, echoing blasts of Beretti weapons.
The scent of burning gunpowder thickens the air, mixing with the iron tang of blood.
Shadows shift between the towering stacks of shipping containers as bodies fall, men screaming out orders, boots pounding against the concrete in a desperate scramble.
But none of it exists for me.
All I see is Alessandra.
Bound to a chair in the center of the room, wrists pulled taut behind her back, ankles tied to the wooden legs.
Strands of dark hair stick to her bruised cheek, her lip split, blood smeared against her chin.
But it’s not the wounds that gut me—it’s the fire in her eyes.
Defiance. Strength. The refusal to break.
And then there’s him.
Dante Beretti stands beside her, one hand gripping a fistful of her hair, yanking her head back just enough to expose the length of her throat. The other holds a gun—pressed tight against her temple.
His smirk is razor-sharp, his dark eyes glinting with something twisted. He’s playing. Enjoying this. The power, the control.
I don’t lower my gun. I don’t flinch. My heartbeat slows, the noise around me dulling to a distant hum. Every muscle in my body is locked, my finger resting on the trigger.
One wrong move, and he’ll pull it.
Dante tilts his head, watching me like I’m something to be studied. Like he’s amused by this whole fucking situation.
“Come on, big brother,” he drawls, his voice thick with mockery. “You don’t think I’ll do it?” He presses the muzzle harder against Alessandra’s skull, his grip tightening in her hair. “I mean, I’d hate to ruin such a pretty face… but orders are orders.”
Alessandra exhales sharply through her nose, her body rigid, but her voice cuts through the thick, suffocating tension like a blade.
"You talk too much, Beretti."
Dante laughs.
A low, entertained chuckle as he drags the barrel of the gun along the side of her face, tracing a slow path over her cheekbone, down to the curve of her jaw.
“And you’re just like your brother,” he muses, his fingers twisting deeper into her hair. “No fear. No begging.” He shakes his head, as if truly disappointed. “Shame. I really wanted to hear you scream.”
Not a fucking chance.
I shift my weight slightly, keeping my aim steady, my expression blank. But inside?
Inside, I’m seconds away from snapping his neck.
The world outside this moment doesn’t exist.
The firefight rages on—shouts, gunfire, bodies dropping one by one—but it’s all background noise to the war being waged here, in this brutal game of wills.
I don’t blink. I don’t move. Because one wrong step means Alessandra dies.
I hold my ground, my gun steady, aimed between Dante Beretti’s eyes. My breathing is slow, controlled, but beneath the surface, a rage simmers, dark and lethal, waiting to be unleashed.
Dante watches me with that insufferable smirk, his expression one of pure amusement. Enjoying this. Milking the moment for all its worth.
Arrogant little shit.
“You kill her,” I say, my voice even, deadly, “and you’re dead before her body hits the floor.”
The words aren’t a threat. They’re a fact.
Dante shrugs, unfazed. As if I just told him it might rain tomorrow.
“Maybe.” He tilts his head, eyes glinting with something sick. “But let’s be honest, Damian. If I die, so does she.” His fingers tighten in Alessandra’s hair, yanking her head back further. “That’s not a trade you want to make.”
I clench my jaw, forcing my grip to stay steady on the trigger. My every instinct is screaming to put a bullet between his eyes, but I can’t. Not yet. Not when he’s still holding her life in his hands.
From the corner of my eye, Antonio Beretti watches silently, standing near the warehouse exit, his arms crossed. Unlike Dante, he’s not playing a game. He’s cold, calculating, running the numbers in his head. And right now? He’s growing impatient.
“Dante,” Antonio says, his voice sharp with warning. “Stop playing with your food. We need to go.”
Dante sighs dramatically, as if annoyed that his entertainment is coming to an end. He tugs at Alessandra’s hair one last time before letting his grip loosen slightly.
“But I was just starting to have fun,” he mutters.
Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he presses the barrel of his gun harder against her skull.
“You should’ve come sooner, Damian,” he says, his smirk widening. “You might’ve saved her from what happens next.”
My mind moves fast—too fast—calculating angles, probabilities, possible outcomes.
Dante has the upper hand. For now.
Alessandra is his shield, the gun against her skull a guarantee that I can’t take the shot yet. Every second that passes strengthens his advantage, feeds his ego, lets him enjoy this sick little performance.
But he’s not as untouchable as he thinks.
There’s a crack in his armor—I just have to find it.
Slowly, I adjust my aim—not enough to be obvious, but just enough to make him aware of it. I shift my focus from his center mass to his forehead, my finger flexing over the trigger.
Dante notices. His smirk widens.
“Thinking about pulling the trigger, big brother?”He taunts, amusement laced in his voice. “Even if you’re fast enough to hit me, my finger’s already on the trigger. Alessandra still dies.”
I don’t react. I keep my breathing even, my stare steady.
And then, I go for the kill.
“You know what your problem is, Dante?” I say, my voice calm, deliberate, slicing through the tension like a blade.
Dante cocks his head, waiting.
I don’t blink. Don’t break eye contact.
“You’re not your father.”
His entire body stiffens.The smirk falters—just for a second.
A flicker of rage, sharp and uncontrolled, flares in his dark eyes. That’s all I need.
That single heartbeat of distraction. That one moment where I own him.
Now.
Alessandra moves first.
She doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t wait for a signal.
Her body snaps back, the crown of her head slamming into Dante’s face. The sickening CRACK of bone against cartilage echoes through the warehouse.
Dante stumbles, cursing, his grip loosening just enough for her to twist away from the pressure of the gun. Blood drips from his nose, splattering against his shirt. His head jerks up, eyes burning with rage.
I don’t give him a chance to recover.
My gun is already raised.
But I don’t aim for him—not yet.
I take out the first guard on his right with a single silenced shot to the skull. The man drops, his body collapsing without a sound.
The second guard barely has time to react before my next shot rips through his throat. He gurgles, staggering before crumpling to the floor.
Chaos erupts.
Shouts ring out from the other side of the warehouse as Beretti soldiers scramble for cover. The air explodes with movement—men drawing their weapons, bullets slicing through the dark. The sharp scent of gunpowder and blood thickens around me.
Alessandra is still half-bound, struggling against the ropes, but she’s fighting—her body twisting, kicking out at the third guard who lunges for her.
Dante roars, his fury breaking loose. He lunges for his gun, his nostrils flaring, but I shift my aim—one second away from taking the shot.
Dante recovers faster than I expect.
Blood drips from his nose, but it doesn’t slow him down. His fingers snatch a fistful of Alessandra’s hair, yanking her violently backward. She yelps, her body twisting as he drags her toward the exit.
No. I will not let him take her.
My pulse spikes, my vision narrowing to a single target—Dante.
I surge forward, cutting down another Beretti soldier who steps into my path. My knife sinks into his side, twisting deep. He chokes, gasping as he collapses.
More gunfire erupts, bullets whizzing past, ricocheting off metal beams and shipping containers. My men are holding the perimeter, taking down Beretti guards one by one, but Antonio’s voice booms over the chaos.
“We’re leaving—NOW!”
A metallic clink. A smoke grenade lands between us, hissing.
Shit.
A thick wave of white smoke billows out, swallowing the space in an instant.
Everything becomes a blur. My eyes burn, my vision distorted. Shapes shift in and out of the fog, shadows moving fast. Footsteps thunder toward the exit.
Through the swirling haze, I see Dante hesitate.
He’s struggling.
Alessandra is fighting him. Her elbow slams into his ribs, her body twisting like a wild animal.
Dante growls, losing his grip for just a second. It’s enough. His teeth clench, frustration flashing across his face. If he keeps holding on to her, he won’t make it out.
His priorities shift. Self-preservation wins. With a snarl, Dante shoves her forward, sending her stumbling into the smoke. His voice cuts through the chaos. Low. Promising.
“Next time, sweetheart.”
And then he’s gone.
No. Not again.
I lunge forward, bursting through the thinning smoke, gun raised, finger on the trigger. But by the time I reach the exit, they’re already gone.
Tires screech outside, rubber burning against asphalt. The sound rips through the night, sharp and grating.
I reach the open warehouse doors just in time to see a fleet of black SUVs peeling away, engines roaring.
Dante is in one of them. Antonio is in another. I have a clean shot.
For half a second, my rifle lines up with the back windshield of the lead vehicle. My muscles tense, my breath steady.
One shot. I could end this. But I don’t fire.
They have men in those cars—bodies that can be used as shields, and I need to know where they’re running. If I kill them here, I lose my only advantage.
So I watch. My jaw clenches, rage crawling up my throat as the taillights disappear into the night.
A deep, seething breath. Not yet. But soon.
The warehouse is still thick with smoke, the air saturated with the acrid scent of gunpowder and blood. The echoes of gunfire have faded, replaced by the heavy footsteps of my men securing the area.
I pivot sharply, my breath still uneven, scanning for Alessandra.
She’s there. Still standing. Still breathing.
Her wrists are raw and red from the restraints, her lower lip split, a trail of blood smeared across her chin. But it’s her eyes that hit me the hardest.
They’re fierce. Unshaken.
Alessandra rolls her shoulders, wincing slightly before wiping the blood from her lip with the back of her hand.
Then, she lifts her chin.
“Took you long enough.”
My chest tightens. Not with guilt, but with pride.
I let out a slow, measured breath before smirking. “You held your own.”
Her lips twitch, the faintest hint of a smirk matching my own.
Behind us, my men begin cleaning up the Beretti bodies left behind, securing weapons, collecting intel. But none of it matters right now.
I got her back. But it’s not over. Because Antonio and Dante are still breathing.
And for the first time since waking up, my mind drifts back to the dream mansion.
To Nichole.