The old opera house stood like a ghost in the heart of the city—its grand façade cracked, its windows dark.
Once a place of music and light, now it was a tomb for secrets.
Damian arrived just after midnight, dressed in black, his gun holstered beneath his coat.
Luca waited in the car, engine running.
Inside, the air smelled of dust and decay. Faint voices echoed from the stage. Damian moved silently through the shadows until he reached the balcony.
Below, a group of men sat around a long table. Their faces were hidden by masks– silver, gold, and black. At the head sat a man in a crimson mask.
"The Moretti line has grown weak," the man said. "It's time we reclaim what was ours."
Another voice answered, smooth and cold. "And if Damian resists?"
"Then he dies like his father."
Damian's pulse quickened. He leaned forward, trying to see the speaker's face.
A floorboard creaked beneath his boot.
The men below froze.
"Someone's here," the crimson mask said.
Gunfire erupted. The first bullet shattered the railing beside him, splinters slicing across his cheek. Damian dove behind the balcony, returning fire in sharp, controlled bursts. Two men fell before the rest scattered for cover.
He sprinted toward the exit, boots pounding against the cracked floorboards. The opera house came alive with chaos—shouts, gunfire, the echo of footsteps chasing him through the corridors.
Luca's voice crackled through the earpiece. "Boss, what's happening?"
"Ambush!" Damian barked, ducking behind a column as bullets tore through the plaster. He fired back, hitting one of the masked men in the shoulder. The man screamed, collapsing against the wall.
Damian pushed forward, weaving through the maze of hallways until he burst through the main doors. Rain and glass exploded around him as he crashed into the night.
Luca's car screeched to a stop at the curb. Damian dove inside, slamming the door as more bullets followed.
"Drive!"
Luca hit the gas. The tires screamed against the wet pavement, the car fishtailing before straightening out. Behind them, the opera house burned—flames licking at its broken windows, smoke curling into the stormy sky.
Damian stared out the window, chest heaving, the reflection of fire flickering in his eyes.
"The Circle," he muttered. "They're not hiding anymore."
Luca glanced at him. "You saw them?"
"Enough to know they're organized. And the man in the crimson mask—he's not just a messenger. He's leading them."
His mind was already racing, piecing together fragments of memory and rumor. The crimson mask. The words about his father. The way the man had spoken—as if he'd been there.
He could still hear the echo of that night years ago—the docks, the rain, the gunshot that ended everything.
His father's voice, calm even in death.
"You'll have to be colder than me, Damian. Or you'll die like me."
The car sped through the city, the storm chasing them.
When they reached the safehouse, Damian stepped out into the rain, letting it wash the blood and dust from his face. The opera house still burned in the distance, a beacon of war.
He turned to Luca, his voice low but steady. "They wanted me to hear that. They wanted me to remember."
"Remember what?" Luca asked.
Damian looked back toward the flames. "That this isn't over. Not for them. Not for me."
He walked toward the door, the rain soaking through his coat, his shadow stretching long across the pavement.
The Circle had shown its face.
And now, Damian Moretti knew exactly where to strike next.