The screaming started before the blood.
Astoria Voss's small hands trembled as she gripped the ragged stuffed fox. Her bare feet, cold and slick against the marble floor, skimmed forward in shallow, unsteady steps. A cacophony of sound thundered through the grand house—the sharp cracks of gunfire, the shouts of men in dark uniforms, the wet thuds of bodies hitting polished stone.
Her mother's voice rose above it all, fragile but commanding, a bright flare in the night. "Astoria! Damien! Hide, now!"
Astoria's throat caught in a sob. Her eyes darted wildly to the hallway, then to the staircase, then back toward her mother, who was already dragging her older brother by the hand.
Damien—only nine—was wide-eyed, mouth set in a hard line. His small fists were clenched so tightly his knuckles whitened. His legs moved fast but controlled, as if he had been drilled for this moment.
Astoria stumbled but kept pace, shivering beneath the weight of terror that coated every breath. Her mother's grip was iron—holding her steady, yet trembling with desperation.
"Where's Damien?" her mother hissed suddenly, voice tight with panic and fury.
"Here," Damien said, barely more than a whisper, his voice cracked and dry.
The sound of boots thudding on the stairs echoed through the marble hall. The flash of gunfire lit the dark like thunderous lightning. The house that had once been their sanctuary—their castle—was transforming into a war zone.
Their mother's hands were slick with blood, her silk nightgown torn in places as she pulled them through the hall toward the library, a heavy room lined with dark wood shelves and thick, dusty tomes. The heavy scent of leather and old paper mingled with the metallic tang of blood.
"Under the floor," she said, breathless. "The secret hatch. Don't move. Don't make a sound. No matter what you hear."
Astoria's lips quivered. "Mama—"
"No matter what."
Her mother knelt, sweat mixing with blood as she yanked back the heavy Persian rug, revealing a trapdoor hidden beneath the carved legs of the grand piano. Her fingers shook as she lifted the hatch, exposing a dark crawlspace no more than three feet tall.
"Get inside," she ordered. "Quick."
Damien scooped Astoria up, holding her close. The air in the crawlspace was cool and smelled of dust and dry wood. The rough floorboards scratched at their skin as they squeezed inside.
Their mother pressed a final kiss to each of their foreheads—her lips trembling against their cold skin.
"Don't come out. No matter what you hear," she repeated. "I will find you."
The hatch slammed shut.
Darkness swallowed them.
Beneath the floorboards, the world was muffled and distant.
Damien's heart hammered in his chest, each beat louder than the gunshots above. His breath came ragged, catching in his throat. Astoria whimpered softly, clutching his arm.
From above, the house erupted into chaos.
Gunfire raked through walls. Heavy boots pounded on hardwood. Crashing furniture, shouts in harsh Italian, curses dripping like poison.
Damien pressed his cheek to the rough wood, the grain digging into his skin, as he peered through the tiny gaps.
What he saw would haunt him forever.
The soldiers came like a storm.
Black uniforms, polished boots stained red. Faces cold and remorseless.
They tore through the house with brutal efficiency. Doors splintered under rifle butts. A body hit the floor with a wet thud that echoed like a death knell.
His father was the first to fall.
The moment Damien's eyes locked on the broken form, his chest seized. His father's eyes stared blankly, the top of his skull shattered. Blood pooled beneath his head, mingling with shards of bone.
The butler lay sprawled on the marble, a deep slash across his throat, eyes wide with shock even in death.
The cook, bloodied and trembling, clung to a frying pan like a shield, but one final bullet found her heart.
Astoria whimpered again, but Damien's fingers clenched around her arm until it hurt.
Their mother was dragged into view next.
Her face was pale but defiant, streaked with blood from a wound on her temple. Her gaze was fierce—unbowed despite the broken nose and split lip.
She spat in the face of the man holding her.
"Vito De Rossi sends his regards," the soldier sneered.
His voice was low, cruel—like the snap of a whip.
Then came the blade.
A long, slow cut across her throat.
The wet sound of skin and flesh parting was almost drowned out by Astoria's blood-curdling scream.
Damien felt bile rise in his throat. His stomach clenched so tight he thought it might rupture.
He wanted to scream. To run. To fight.
But he couldn't move.
He was frozen beneath the floorboards.
The soldiers turned toward the noise.
Boots thundered on the blood-slick floor.
The hatch above rattled.
Damien lunged, grabbing Astoria's hand as a fist burst through the trapdoor.
He bit down hard on a soldier's wrist, drawing a surprised grunt.
But the next blow came fast and brutal.
A rifle butt smashed against his temple.
His vision spun.
Blood filled his mouth.
He tasted copper and iron.
And then—blackness.
Blackness had swallowed Damien's world—then coughing, sharp breaths dragged him back.
His head throbbed like a sledgehammer pounding in his skull. Blood slicked his face and soaked his torn shirt. Every breath was a raw scrape in his chest.
He blinked, sluggish and uncertain, and the dim light filtering through the hatch was a cruel reminder he was still alive.
But how?
He couldn't move his legs—heavy, useless weights beneath him. His right temple pulsed, a wet warmth leaking down his neck. His hands trembled as they pressed to the floor, slick with something sticky and warm.
He dared to look down.
Blood. His own. A river pooling beneath him.
His mind swam.
Memories crashed in like broken glass.
Astoria's scream.
His mother's final breath.
His father's lifeless eyes.
The steel boots stomping toward him.
They had left him here.
Broken.
Bleeding.
Silent.
A corpse in the ruins.
The thought hit him like a knife to the gut.
His little sister.
Gone.
Taken.
Dragged screaming into the night.
He fought the urge to howl, to rage, to scream until his throat bled.
Instead, he closed his eyes and willed himself still.
The house groaned around him.
Shadows crawled along the walls.
Distant sirens wailed—too late, too far away.
The world had moved on.
But Damien had not.
He was trapped in this moment—the endless, suffocating nightmare where family was ripped apart and nothing was safe.
He reached out with trembling fingers, touching the cold floor.
He thought of Astoria, somewhere out there in the dark.
He had to survive.
For her.
Slowly, agonizingly, Damien dragged himself forward, each movement searing pain through shattered limbs.
His breath came in shallow gasps.
His vision blurred.
He stopped, tears leaking down his cheeks, mixing with the blood.
He whispered her name.
"Astoria… I'm here… I'll find you."
The house was death.
But Damien Voss would become its ghost.