The quiet in the estate was not an absence of sound; it was a presence, pressing down on my eardrums like the weight of water in a deep pool.
I lay stiffly in the massive bed, staring at the ornate plasterwork of the ceiling while my mind spun in frantic circles.
Even with the low hum of the air conditioning, I felt like I could not breathe.
Needing air, I threw off the heavy silk covers and made my way to the door.
I turned the brass handle, expecting the hard stop of a lock.
Instead, the latch clicked open.
Dante must have forgotten to turn the deadbolt after dinner.
I slipped out into the cavernous, dimly lit hallway.
The marble floor was freezing against my bare feet, sending a shock up my legs.
I had no destination; I just needed to walk, to feel some semblance of control over my own body.
My aimless wandering led me down a long corridor I had not seen before.
The walls were lined with imposing old oil paintings of men who looked just as cold and cruel as Dante.
At the far end of the hall, a heavy steel door stood shut, but a small, barred ventilation grate near the floor spilled a thin sliver of light onto the marble.
A low, rhythmic thud echoed from the unseen staircase behind it.
I crept closer, my pulse picking up its rhythm with every step.
The smell hit me before I reached the threshold—a sharp, metallic, rusty smell that pulled me back instantly to the warehouse.
Fresh blood.
Just as I reached the door, it was pushed open by an exiting guard. I held my breath, catching the heavy steel plate before it could latch, and peered through the narrow crack down the concrete stairs.
The basement below was bathed in the harsh, sterile glare of fluorescent bulbs.
In the center of the room, a man was bound to a metal chair.
His face was a swollen, unrecognizable mass of purple and red.
Dante stood in front of him.
He was not wearing his suit jacket, and the sleeves of his crisp white dress shirt were rolled up to his elbows.
The pristine white fabric was splattered with stark, dark red stains.
With a terrifying casualness, Dante pulled his fist back and struck the man across the face.
The sickening crunch of bone giving way echoed up the stairwell.
I gasped, clapping both hands over my mouth.
The sound was tiny, less than a breath, but in the dead silence of the basement, it was more than enough.
Dante froze mid-swing.
He slowly turned his head, his gaze tracking up the stairs.
His pitch-black eyes locked directly onto mine through the crack in the door.
He did not look surprised. He did not look ashamed.
Instead, a dark, possessive gleam flared in his irises—he looked like a wolf who had just spotted his mate trembling in the brush.
"Come down here, Sophia."
My legs refused to move.
Every instinct screamed at me to run back to my room and hide under the covers like a child.
When I did not move, his voice dropped an octave, carrying a quiet, lethal warning.
"Do not make me come up there to get you."
My body shaking, I pushed the heavy door wider and slowly began the descent down the concrete steps.
A violent chill that had nothing to do with the cold air racked my body.
I stopped a few feet away from him, keeping my eyes fixed on the stained cloth of Dante's shirt, entirely unable to look at the bleeding man in the chair.
Dante closed the distance and grabbed my chin with his blood-soaked hand.
I jerked my head back, the heels of my bare feet scraping against the concrete, but the half-dried film of blood on his palm clung to my jaw like a suction cup.
He held me firm, his grip an iron vise as he forced my head to turn toward the chair.
"Look at him."
I squeezed my eyes shut, tears stinging their corners.
"I said, look at him," he commanded, his voice a blade of ice.
I forced my eyes open.
The man was barely conscious, a thick rivulet of blood dripping from his chin onto his chest.
"This man sold information to the Chicago outfit," Dante said, his voice completely devoid of any emotion. "He broke his vow."
I swallowed against the bitter bile rising in my throat.
"Why are you showing me this?"
Dante turned my face back to him, his gaze intense.
Slowly, deliberately, he smeared a thick streak of blood across my pale cheek with his thumb.
"Because you need to understand the kind of filth that runs in the drains of this basement."
His eyes bored into mine, ruthlessly looking for weakness, waiting for me to break.
"There is no mercy here, Sophia. There is only loyalty, and there is punishment."
I stared back into the abyss of his dark eyes, the cloying scent of copper filling my lungs with every shallow breath.
"Are you going to kill him?"
"Yes."
He let go of my face, his expression hardening as he stepped back into the harsh light.
"Go back to your room."
I turned and fled up the stairs as fast as my shaking legs could carry me.
I did not stop running until I had locked myself inside my bathroom, frantically scrubbing my cheek with a washcloth soaked in scalding hot water.
But no matter how hard I scrubbed, no matter how red and raw my flesh became, I could still feel the phantom heat of his bloody fingerprint burning into my skin.
