Damien’s Unraveling

Damien The warehouse lay cloaked in the Milan night, its steel ribs swallowed by shadows and the drip of melting ice. Outside, snow blanketed the city roads—yet inside, the air was sharp with tension. Damien Zayn Vasquez stood under the weak pool of a streetlamp’s glow, his black coat buttoned high, collar turned. At six-foot-four, with broad shoulders and a body built by years of ruthlessness, he looked carved by angels—if angels bore scars and a merciless eye. I watched as the Russian-marked van drove into the loading dock, its engine humming low. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t speak. My men—silent, efficient—spread out by my command. This world works in a funny way. You offer worthless leeches a pity hand, and the next thing you know they latch onto the base of your neck, sucking your blood out The driver, face pale beneath the street light, jumped out holding a folder stamped. The stamp laughed at me: PETROV. A sneer threatened the corner of my mouth—so many nights spent remembering the Petrov name and the wound it reopened in his soul. This is a mere reminder of why you should never offer worthless dogs your hand because sooner or later they'll bite off of it. “What makes you think you can come here and deliver this on our turf?” My voice was poised, the quiet of absolute danger. I stepped closer, the snow crunching softly under my boots, and the van’s engine cut. The driver trembled. “Mr Vasquez… we had a deal—” “A deal?” I repeated, almost amused. “You think I do deals with Russians who murdered my family?” My fist tightened. The light flickered. Time held its breath. I ordered my men to take him away and wait for instructions Later on, I stroll into the warehouse and come in contact with Rizzo first "Good, you're here. This son of a b***h won't crack" He murmurs bitterly A sick smirk plays at the corner of my lips. A tough nut to crack, huh? I've always enjoyed those more. Instead of being obedient and boring, the ones who struggled and fought off gave me more satisfaction. It makes me sweat and work to squeeze the information out. I take notice of Rizzo’s bruised knuckles and the disfigured features of the punk's face Well, this is going to be fun, I thought. I nod and step away from Rizzo further into the stench of blood and rusty copper while tossing my suit jacket to the side, I lift my white button shirt's sleeves, rolling them up just to reach below my elbows. I occupy Rizzo’s previous chair, the metal screeching the floor in the process intentionally, just in time to catch the surprise on my prisoner's bloodied face. I take a thorough look to examine his state. His face, well, speaks for itself. He's tied to a chair, I can see the marks of the ropes digging painfully into his hands and legs. His clothes are soaked with sweat and blood, a deadly combination that I've grown to like. "Well, I'm not a man of many words either, but I can tell we're going to have a lot of fun getting that mouth of yours to tell me all I need to know. Took me a few hours of our little play date, to get that sick bastard to finally give me some useful information. It took all his fingers, one arm one ear, and almost a leg for him to speak but it was all worth it I enjoyed every single second Nikolai Petrov! I murmured under my breath Cazzo! That's the Russian mafia leader. Cocking my gun, I lift it and shoot a bullet into his head, straight between his eyes. As the trucks rolled out, lit only by the warehouse’s sunny bulbs, Rizzo approached from the dark like a shadow that moved because Damien commanded. At 6-foot-0 and built lean, Rizzo’s loyalty was unquestioned—his hand rested lightly on his own gun, his gaze intense. “Everything went to plan?” I asked without looking at him. “Yes, sir,” Rizzo replied. Calm. Steady. I nodded once, curtly. “Then we begin the message. Let the Russians know: we bow to no one.” Outside, the snow bit into the air And somewhere on the other side of the world, another story was stirring—one that didn’t yet know it would be twisted around this night.