The Weapon Wakes

he hallway stank of bleach and something metallic—like blood that had been scrubbed too many times but never truly gone.

Each flickering bulb overhead buzzed like a warning.

I walked anyway.

Boots silent on concrete, spine straight, heart steady. I knew how they wanted me to feel—trapped, alone, afraid.

They didn’t understand me at all.

Fear wasn’t my enemy anymore.

It was my fuel.

Another camera followed me. I felt it move. I didn’t look at it.

The corridor opened into a wider room. Still industrial. Still bare.

But at the center stood a chair—thick steel frame, leather restraints curling like dead vines across the arms.

Beside it, a table.

On it, a photograph.

My mother.

Tied to a chair. Eyes swollen. Mouth gagged.

Alive.

My hand didn’t shake as I picked it up. But I felt the tremor inside—the shudder of rage that curled under my ribs and whispered, kill him slow.

The screen on the far wall blinked to life.

And there he was.

Dante Moretti.

Leaning back in a high-backed chair, dark suit pristine, eyes like a dead man’s dream.

“Serena,” he said, voice silk-wrapped and slow. “You always were punctual. A rare trait in a traitor’s daughter.”

“I’m not here for a reunion,” I said.

His mouth curved. “No. You’re here to make threats. Or perhaps die bravely for your brothers. You always did play the martyr well.”

I tilted my head. “Funny. I always saw you as the martyr—dying slowly under the weight of your daddy’s name.”

His smile thinned. “We could’ve been allies, you and I. Power recognizes power.”

“I’m not interested in power. I’m interested in truth.”

A pause.

He stood, adjusting the cufflinks on his shirt like he was preparing for a party, not a reckoning.

“And what truth are you hoping to dig out of the dirt down here?”

I stepped forward, slow. Deliberate.

“That my mother betrayed you? Or that you betrayed her?”

That stopped him.

Just long enough for me to see it—the flicker behind his eyes. The moment the mask cracked.

“She lied to me,” he said coldly. “Fed me names, fake intel. Got my men killed.”

“She fed you enough to keep you alive.”

“She fed me poison,” he snapped.

“No,” I said, voice low, “you swallowed it. Because you wanted to believe she loved you.”

The screen cut to static.

Then a different image blinked on.

A live feed.

My mother.

Bound. Breathing. Barely.

Dante’s voice returned, sharper now. Cold enough to cut.

“You think you can barter her life for your rage?”

“No,” I said.

“I think I can trade your life for her silence.”

The door behind me slammed open.

Two guards entered. Masked. Armed.

I smiled.

Poor bastards.

I raised my hands slowly.

And dropped the small silver disc from my wrist.

The tracker.

Still pulsing.

Still transmitting.

The ceiling exploded.

Smoke filled the room. Gunfire cracked through the air like thunder. A drone screeched overhead, spraying sparks. Chaos erupted.

Matteo moved first—emerging from the blast smoke like a devil made real, knives in both hands.

Luca flanked right, gun raised. Two shots. Two bodies down.

Nico followed, grin wild, rifle singing in his hands. “Knock, knock, motherfuckers!”

One of the guards lunged for me.

I planted a boot in his chest and flipped him over my shoulder. He hit the ground with a crunch.

“Nice,” Nico called, ducking a blow. “Remind me to flirt with you later.”

“Remind me to shoot you if you try,” I yelled back.

The last of Dante’s guards went down under Luca’s boot. Blood slicked the concrete.

The monitor sparked.

Dante was gone.

Coward.

“Get her,” Matteo barked. “Now.”

We ran.

Through another corridor. Down metal steps slick with old rust. To the holding cell where my mother was slumped, eyes fluttering.

Luca reached her first. Tore the gag free. Checked her pulse.

“She’s alive.”

She opened her mouth to speak—but her voice was broken. Raw.

“Serena,” she rasped.

“I’m here,” I said, kneeling beside her, trying not to break. “I’m here, Mom.”

She gripped my hand like it was the only thing real in the world.

“You have to stop him,” she whispered. “You have to finish what I started.”

I froze. “What?”

“I tried,” she said. “But there’s more. A name. A file. Hidden at—”

The ceiling groaned.

More gunfire. Farther off this time.

Then Nico’s voice, sharp and urgent. “We’ve got incoming. Drones. He knows we’re here.”

“We’re out,” Matteo snapped. “Now.”

We hauled her up between us.

Luca slung her arm around his shoulder. “Echo route extraction. Meet point Bravo.”

I followed, blade in hand, blood on my cheek.

As we ran, her voice echoed in my ears.

A name. A file.

Secrets we hadn’t found yet. Buried deeper than this dungeon. Maybe in our own home. Maybe inside the Moretti vault.

Either way, I’d find it.

And I’d burn what was left of Dante Moretti to ash.