The general waited in the same black room where Damien had first bled his innocence onto the concrete floor.
Only now, Damien didn't walk in as a boy.
He walked in as a weapon.
Broad-shouldered. Cold-eyed. Nineteen years old and already a ghost.
He stood at attention.
The general didn't look up at first. Just lit a cigar and exhaled smoke like he was dragging it straight from Hell.
"You're ready," he said.
Damien nodded once.
Silence stretched.
But Damien didn't speak—not until the general opened the drawer.
Pulled out a sealed black folder with a waxed stamp bearing no insignia. A file that had haunted his thoughts for a decade.
"It's time you know the truth," the general said.
Damien's jaw flexed.
The general slid the folder across the table.
"They weren't just aristocrats," he said. "They weren't civilians either. Your parents—Lord and Lady Voss—were deep-cover assets. Double agents embedded in the European underworld for almost fifteen years."
Damien's heart didn't race. He'd trained that response out of his body.
But something behind his ribs tightened.
"They worked for SOVRA—a joint intel task force targeting high-tier Mafia syndicates across southern Europe. Their assignment was the De Rossi Empire."
The name burned like acid.
The general continued.
"They gathered intel for years—drug routes, smuggling networks, black-market weapons distribution. They had almost everything we needed to dismantle the De Rossi dynasty from the inside. But someone betrayed them."
His fingers tapped the folder once. Slow. Final.
"Vito De Rossi found out who they were."
Damien said nothing.
He didn't need to.
The silence said it for him.
They killed his parents because they knew too much.
And they killed everyone else to silence the bloodline.
"I tried to stop it," the general said. "But by the time I intercepted the chatter, the massacre had already started. I was too late."
His voice was like gravel breaking against stone.
"And Astoria?" Damien asked, for the first time in years.
The general's eyes didn't waver.
"I searched. For years. Intel. Interrogations. Paid assassins and mercenaries. Nothing. Not a trace. Maybe they killed her. Maybe they didn't. Maybe…" he paused. "They're keeping her in some corner of the world. To torture you. Or to break her."
A long silence.
"She's either dead, or… worse."
Damien's throat tightened.
He said nothing.
Just reached for the folder.
The general nodded. "Open it."
✦ File D.7 –
Target: Celeste De Rossi
Name: Celeste "C" De Rossi
Age: 20
Status: Mafia Heiress
Bloodline: Alleged only child of Vito De Rossi (Mafia Emperor, Capo di Tutti Capi)
Known Aliases: None
Nationality: Italian
Education: La Scala University, Political Science major (on paper only)
Associates: High society elites, underworld heirs, security forces
Psychological Profile:
Narcissistic traits
High manipulative intelligence
Hedonistic lifestyle
Zero moral inhibition
Exhibits cruel dominance behavior; known for breaking hired help for pleasure
Tendencies:
Power-play sexual dynamics
Substance experimentation
History of controlling personal bodyguards via humiliation/submission games
Routine:
Classes 2x/week (usually skipped)
Frequented haunts: Velvet Noir (underground bar), Sorrento Estate (De Rossi-owned compound), private yacht parties
Security Detail:
3-man team, rotated every 2 weeks.
Recent history of bodyguards resigning due to "psychological stress."
Weakness:
Emotionally impulsive
Drawn to resistance/submission interplay
Craves control, gets bored of obedience
Hides insecurity behind cruelty
Damien read every line.
Twice.
Then closed the folder with steady hands.
"She's the key," the general said.
"If you control her, you control the door to De Rossi."
"She's his prize. His only surviving legacy. His weakness."
He pulled out another file—clean, printed, and stamped with high-priority seal.
New Identity:
Alessandro Moretti
Age: 25
Background: Orphaned at 7. Raised in Naples. Served in local militia units until scouted by Aegis Italia, an elite private bodyguard organization specializing in high-risk asset protection.
Skills: Close-combat expert. Weapons-trained. Fluent in Italian, Russian, and English.
Cover Story: "Alessandro" was top-ranked in Aegis's shadow program. He's been loaned—by special arrangement and immense payment—as a personal bodyguard to Celeste De Rossi.
Cover Traits: Disciplined. Silent. Humble. Impeccably professional. Unbroken.
Objective: Gain her trust. Become her obsession. Infiltrate De Rossi's house. Access their tech servers. Uncover the Syndicate's web. And when the time is right… Burn it down.
The general tossed a collar onto the table.
Black leather. Silver buckle. No tag.
"She'll try to break you," he said. "But you'll let her."
"You're not her guard, Damien."
"You're her leash."
Damien stood.
His pulse steady.
No anger. No grief. Just the cold furnace of revenge burning behind his eyes.
"I'm ready."
The general gave one last nod.
"Then go get what's yours."
The black car that pulled up in front of Aegis Italia's fortress-like facility gleamed like obsidian. Its tinted windows reflected nothing—like the man who stepped out.
Alessandro Moretti was born the moment Damien Voss stopped bleeding.
Clad in a tactical black shirt, sharp jaw clean-shaven, eyes ice-cold and unreadable—he walked with the precision of someone who had already planned the murder of everyone in the room.
Inside the gates, high-security scanners pulsed as armed guards stepped aside at the sight of the general's insignia.
A man in a steel-gray suit greeted him with a curt nod.
"Lieutenant Miro. I'll be your transition handler," he said crisply. "Welcome to Aegis Italia."
The facility was everything a black-tier operation should be—clinical, fortified, and whisper-quiet.
Steel corridors. Reinforced rooms. Surveillance eyes hidden in the ceiling.
"This is where the best bodyguards in Europe are made," Miro explained as they passed the weapons vault. "Military dropouts. Intelligence ghosts. Failed assassins. Rebuilt into shadows that shield the world's worst people."
They stopped in front of a thick glass door marked: UNIT A.
"Your team," Miro said. "Your cover. Your fallback."
The door hissed open.
Team A: Shadows in Flesh
They were already assembled.
Four faces turned toward him, each framed by discipline and danger.
Lena Vieri — tall, lean, and lethal. Ex-MI6. Short dark hair and sharper eyes. Wore black gloves even indoors. Rumor was she once pulled someone's tongue out with them.
Juno Kael — blonde, cocky, with a smirk that said trouble. Ex-special ops turned infiltration expert. Knew every way to kill a man, and three ways to make him beg first.
Cassian Drex — scarred, silent, sniper-trained. Hadn't smiled since his last kill two years ago. Didn't speak unless he had to—and even then, it came out like a threat.
Niko Vale — tech prodigy, surveillance wizard, soft-spoken but unnervingly fast with a combat knife. Raised by mercenaries. Slept with one eye open.
They were Team A.
The best Aegis had.
And now, he was one of them.
"Alessandro Moretti," Miro introduced him. "Call sign: Ales. Your lead man for the De Rossi mission."
Lena studied him. "You look like a man who's already buried himself."
Ales didn't blink. "I'm just here to bury someone else."
An hour later, Ales stood before the Chief of Aegis Italia, a man known only as Director Falcone—a towering figure with silver hair and eyes like gunmetal.
Falcone circled the table, a stack of files in one hand, gaze fixed on Ales like he was testing for cracks.
"Vito De Rossi requested twelve candidates," he said. "Twelve of our best. His daughter has rejected over thirty from across Europe. She likes to... play with her guards."
He let that hang.
"Our goal is simple. You get picked. You get close. You get control."
Falcone's eyes narrowed.
"I'll make sure Vito's eyes fall on you first."
He slid a red-access badge across the table.
"This is your ID. It tags you as a Tier-1 Combat Specialist. You'll be presented third—psychologically, that's the sweet spot. Not too desperate. Not too late to forget."
He motioned to Niko, who tossed Ales a case.
"Your room is Level 2, Quarter 47. Tactical gear is in the locker. Medical clearance and neural reflex scan already logged. All files on Celeste are synced to your Aegis OS wristband. Encrypted. Only voice-print access."
Cassian stood. "I'll walk him through the loadout."
Ales walked in to find sleek steel lockers lining one wall, a single cot, and a biometric terminal glowing with his false credentials.
Cassian leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.
"Everything here is double-checked, zero-fail," he said. "This mission? It's suicide if you break character."
He tapped a weapons case.
"Inside, you'll find:
• Glock-19 Gen 5
• Concealed wrist-blade
• Pressure-activated stun ring
• Voice-activated mic embedded in the collar lining of your formal suit
• Trackers in your boots and belt buckle
• Kevlar-threaded dress coat
• Liquid blade disguised as a pen
• Sedative patch hidden behind watch dial"
Ales nodded once.
Cassian studied him.
"Most men crack around Celeste De Rossi," he said. "They fall for the game. The tease. The power shifts. Then she breaks them like toys."
Ales's gaze never wavered. "She won't break me."
Cassian gave a rare smile—cold and quiet.
"She'll try."
The next morning, Director Falcone gathered all twelve candidates on the black ops rooftop—wind cutting like razors through their suits.
Helicopters were prepped. Transport vehicles aligned in a perfect convoy.
"You're walking into the lion's mouth," Falcone barked. "Vito De Rossi kills with a smile and buries with a silk napkin."
"Do not blink."
"Do not breathe arrogance."
"And for the love of God, don't fuck up."
As the convoy rolled toward De Rossi Estate, Ales adjusted the collar of his high-grade suit.
The leather pressed softly against his throat—a taste of the future Celeste would soon try to control.
He exhaled slowly.
This was the beginning.
The trap had been set.
Now all that was left… was to become her perfect prey.