Ten years ago. Naples. Midnight.
The alley stank of gasoline and betrayal.
Dante Valerio crouched behind a dumpster, blood dripping from his temple. The deal had gone sideways—guns drawn, loyalty shattered. He'd been set up by his own crew. Left to die.
Footsteps echoed. Not the enemy. Not yet.
Viktor Moretti.
Leather jacket. Cigarette dangling from his lips. Calm in chaos.
"You look like hell," Viktor said, crouching beside him.
"I'm bleeding out," Dante muttered.
"Then stop talking and move."
Viktor hauled him up, slung Dante's arm over his shoulder, and dragged him through the back alleys like they'd done it a hundred times. No questions. No hesitation.
They reached a safehouse—bare walls, flickering lights. Viktor stitched Dante's wound himself, hands steady.
"Why?" Dante asked. "Why help me?"
Viktor lit another cigarette, eyes shadowed.
"Because you're not like them. You still have a soul. And I don't let good men die for bad reasons."
Dante stared at him. No one had ever called him good before.
"You owe me now," Viktor said, half-smiling. "But not with money. With honor."
"Honor's dead in this world."
"Then we'll resurrect it."
That night, a bond was forged—not in blood, but in belief. Viktor gave Dante more than a second chance. He gave him a reason to live differently.
And when Viktor disappeared years later, Dante never forgot.
Dante never forgot.
Viktor had saved his life, not for profit, but for principle. In a world where loyalty was currency and betrayal came cheap, Viktor had been rare. And when he vanished, Dante made a vow:
Blood must be paid by blood.
Years passed. The vow remained.
Then one rainy night, Dante's driver swerved to avoid a fallen branch—and struck a woman in a torn wedding dress, collapsed on the roadside.
Dante stepped out of the car, ready to walk away. But then he saw her face.
Alessia Moretti.
The girl Viktor used to talk about. The sister he swore to protect. The one he said had more strength than she knew.
She was broken. Bleeding. Alone.
Dante stared down at her, heart clenched.
This is Viktor's blood.
He carried her into the car himself. Ordered silence. No police. No hospital. Only his manor.
Because this wasn't just an accident. It was fate.
But as he cradled her fragile body, something stirred in him.
A tightness in his chest.
A warmth that burned beneath the cold armor he'd worn for years.
Pain—but not the kind he was used to.
Not the kind that came from knives or betrayal.
This was different.
Unfamiliar.
Human.
She shouldn't matter. But she does.
And for the first time since Viktor's death, Dante felt something he couldn't name.