"Betrayal was a poison that lingered. Even after Luca's screams had faded into silence, Dante knew the real enemy was still out there, hiding in the shadows."
The night reeked of blood and gasoline.
Dante stood over the broken body of Luca, his knuckles raw, his shirt clinging to him with streaks of crimson. The warehouse was silent now, except for the faint dripping of water from a rusted pipe above, mixing with the coppery stench of betrayal that clung to the air like a curse.
His men stood at a distance, their faces pale, their silence thick with awe and fear. They had seen Dante kill before, but not like this. Not with such unrestrained violence. Luca's screams had echoed through the walls until they died down into wet gurgles, swallowed by the shadows.
Dante wiped his hand across his mouth, his breathing steady, his eyes cold. He wasn't just a man anymore-he was the Don, judge and executioner. And tonight he had sent a message that could not be mistaken.
"Betrayal," Dante said finally, his voice calm but cutting, "is not forgiven. Not in this world. Not under my rule."
The words rolled out like a decree, each syllable sharp enough to wound. His men nodded, some too afraid to even meet his gaze. Marco, loyal and sharp-eyed, stepped forward.
"It's done, Don. He won't speak again."
Dante's lips twitched in something that could barely be called a smile. "No. He won't. But someone else will. This rot started somewhere, and Luca was only the beginning."
Silence. Heavy, suffocating silence. Even the men who had stood with him for years now shifted on their feet, suddenly aware that their loyalty was under scrutiny.
Dante turned, his long coat swaying behind his hands still stained red. "Blood stains don't fade, murmured. "And when I find the rest of the traitors, they'll drown in it."
The ride back to the mansion was quiet. Dante sat in the back of the car, staring out into the night as the city blurred past. His reflection in the window was pale, hard, the blood on his shirt already drying into a rusty brown.
He didn't flinch at it. It was his badge, his reminder.
Betrayal would always demand blood.
But even as his fury simmered, a darker thought clawed at him. If Luca wasn't working alone, then someone higher, smarter, was pulling the strings.
Someone who knew his family's weaknesses.
Someone who dared to whisper against the Don of
New York.
His jaw tightened. Whoever it was–they would regret it.
Ava was waiting when he returned.
She had fallen asleep curled up on the couch in the grand living room, the glow of the chandelier casting a soft light over her delicate features. The moment she heard the door open, her eyes fluttered awake, and she sat up, her gaze finding him instantly.
Her smile faltered when she saw the blood.
"Dante..." Her voice cracked with worry. She rushed to him, her hands trembling as they reached for his shirt. "What happened? You're hurt–"
"I'm fine," he said curtly, brushing past her.
"No, you're not." She grabbed his arm, refusing to let go, her eyes searching his, "This isn't just a cut...
This is–"
Her breath caught as the truth sank in. She had seen enough to know this wasn't his blood.
Her chest tightened, fear laced with something darker–realization.
"What have you done, Dante?"
He turned, his gaze like ice, pinning her in place. For a moment, his mask slipped and she saw the storm raging beneath–violence, rage, and something far more dangerous.
"What I had to do," he said simply.
Those four words carved into her heart like a blade.
He moved past her, climbing the stairs without another word. Ava stood frozen, her body trembling, her mind torn between fear and the ache of loving a man who is both a protector and a monster.
In his office, Dante poured himself a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the light. Marco entered quietly, shutting the door behind him.
"You want me to spread word about Luca?" Marco asked.
"Yes," Dante said without hesitation. "Let it be known that betrayal is answered with blood. Let the streets remember who I am."
Marco nodded but hesitated. "Don... there's something else."
Dante arched a brow.
"Before we... finished Luca, he said something. Just one word. 'Mole!"
The glass in Dante's hand stilled, the word sinking into him like a shadow.
Mole.
Someone burrowed deep, unseen, feeding off the foundation of everything he had built.
"Find him," Dante said, his voice a low growl. "I don't care how long it takes. Tear apart the city if you have to. But find him."
Later that night, Ava sat on the edge of their bed, her fingers tangled in the sheets. She couldn't shake the image of Dante walking in with blood on his hands, his eyes so cold, so unyielding.
She loved him–God, she loved him– but at what cost? Could she live with this side of him? Could she survive it?
When he finally joined her, his shirt changed but his skin still smelling faintly of iron and smoke, she whispered, "Dante... I don't know if I belong in this world."
He looked at her, his expression unreadable, then leaned down, brushing his lips against her temple.
"You belong where I say you belong," he murmured.
"And that's here. With me."
Her heart pounded, torn between desire and dread. His words weren't just love–they were a claim. A cage.
As she lay beside him, her eyes open in the dark, one truth pressed heavy in her chest.
Maybe she hadn't just fallen in love with a man.
Maybe she had been claimed by a monster.
Far away, in a hidden corner of the city, another glass was raised in mock celebration.
A figure cloaked in shadow leaned back, smirking as he read the coded message delivered by one of his men.
"Luca is gone. The Don has blood on his hands. Just as planned."
The man chuckled softly, his voice low and smooth.
"The lion's claws are sharp," he said, swirling the drink in his hand. "But his heart is exposed."
The Mole wasn't afraid of Dante.
He was waiting.
Back in the mansion, Ava rolled over and found her hand brushing against Dante's shirt discarded on the chair. In the faint light, she saw the dried bloodstains, dark and unyielding.
She whispered to herself, voice shaking, "Blood stains don't fade…
And somewhere in the shadows of New York, The Mole whispered the same words, as though mocking her despair.