The road to the monastery wound through the hills like a scar. Damian drove alone, headlights cutting through the fog, the hum of the engine the only sound in the night.
The monastery appeared at the crest of the hill, its stone walls blackened by time. Once a place of prayer, now it stood hollow and desecrated, a sanctuary turned battlefield.
Damian parked beneath the crumbling archway and stepped out, the cold biting through his coat.
Inside, the air was damp and heavy with the scent of mildew and smoke. Candles flickered along the altar, their flames trembling in the draft. In the center of the nave stood Rocco, his back turned, a pistol hanging loosely at his side.
"I was wondering when you'd come," Rocco said without turning.
Damian's voice was steady. "You should've run farther."
Rocco laughed softly. "And miss the chance to see the son of Lorenzo Morreti walk into his father's grave?"
Damian took a step forward. "You betrayed him. You betrayed me."
Rocco turned, his expression unreadable. "Your father was a great man. But greatness dies with time. The Circle offered something he couldn't—survival."
"Survival?" Damian's tone sharpened. "You call this survival? Selling out his name to the men who killed him?"
Rocco's jaw tightened. "You don't understand what Lorenzo was fighting.
He wasn't just at war with The Circle—he was at war with himself. And Salvatore tried to save him."
The name hit Damian like a blow. "Salvatore?"
Rocco nodded slowly. "Your father's oldest friend. The one who stood beside him when the families turned. He's the one who kept The Circle alive after Lorenzo fell."
A voice echoed from the shadows behind the altar. "I didn't keep it alive, Damian. I rebuilt it."
Damian turned. From the shadows stepped a man Damian had not seen in over a decade—tall, composed, his presence commanding even in silence. The crimson mask covered half his face, but the voice that followed was unmistakable.
"Salvatore," Damian said, his voice rough.
He looked almost exactly as Damian remembered from childhood—his father's confidant, the man who taught him how to shoot, how to read a room, how to survive.
"You were supposed to protect him."
"I did," Salvatore replied. "Until he stopped listening. Lorenzo wanted peace. But peace is a lie men tell themselves before they're destroyed."
"You call this peace?" Damian gestured to the ruined hall. "You turned his dream into a weapon."
The older man smiled faintly. "You've grown into your father's image. Cold. Calculating. But still too sentimental."
"You should've stayed dead."
"Death is a luxury for men without purpose," Salvatore said. "Your father thought he could erase me. He was wrong. The Circle was mine before it was his. The Circle isn't your enemy, Damian—it's your inheritance. You can still lead it, as he should have."
Damian's hand hovered near his gun. "You killed him."
"I freed him," Salvatore replied. "He built an empire on fear. I'll build one on truth."
"Truth?" Damian's voice hardened. "You burned cities for power."
Salvatore's eyes glinted behind the mask. "Power is truth. And you, Damian, are the last piece I need."
Rocco shifted beside him, uneasy. "He won't listen, Salvatore. He's too much like Lorenzo."
Damian's eyes flicked to Rocco. "You're right."
Rocco raised his weapon, but Damian was faster. Two shots echoed through the hall.
Rocco fell first, his body collapsing beside the altar. The second bullet grazed Salvatore's shoulder, spinning him back into the shadows.
Gunfire erupted from the upper balconies—The Circle's men, hidden among the ruins.
Damian dove behind a pillar, returning fire in sharp bursts. Stone shattered, candles toppled, smoke filled the air.
He moved like a ghost through the chaos, every shot precise, every breath measured. One by one, the masked men fell until only silence remained.
When the smoke cleared, Salvatore was gone. Only the crimson mask lay on the floor, cracked down the center.
Damian picked it up, blood dripping from his hand. The mask felt heavier than it should have, as if it carried the weight of every betrayal that had come before.
Outside, the rain had stopped. The first light of dawn broke over the hills, pale and cold. Damian stood at the monastery gates, the mask in his hand, the fire of vengeance still burning in his chest.
The Circle had lost its face—but not its reach.
And as the sun rose over the ruins, Damian Moretti knew the war was far from over.