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Dante tenses beside me. "Now is not the time for revelations, Marco."

"It's about Nico." Marco's expression is grim. "Our intelligence team finished decrypting the files from Dominguez's yacht. Those files confirm what Vladimir hinted at on the phone, sir. Nico's been siphoning Volkov drugs through our channels for months."

"That's why our accounts were frozen," I understand immediately. "Nico wasn't just playing both sides; he wasstealingfrom both sides."

Marco nods. "The Volkovs suspected Luca at first, but when they realized it was Nico operating independently... well, that's when everything changed."

Dante's face hardens to stone. "All this time... right undermynose."

"Dante—" I begin, but he cuts me off with a sharp gesture.

"Later," he says. "Right now, we focus on Antonio."

The maintenance shed door gives way under controlled, stealthy force, revealing a narrow tunnel lit only by emergency bulbs that cast sickly yellow light across grimy concrete walls. The passage smells of mold and damp earth, the air heavy and stale from what could be years of being unused.

We descend in single file, Dante first, then me, Marco bringing up the rear. The rest of the team follows at carefully measured intervals, maintaining communication through subvocal microphones that allow for silent coordination.

The tunnel seems endless, curved slightly downward, taking us deeper beneath the castle grounds. My heartbeat accelerates with each step, hammering against my ribs as we approach what might be my brother's grave.

Please be alive,I think desperately.Please hang on, Antonio.

After what feels like hours but must be only minutes, Dante raises his fist, signaling a halt. Ahead, the tunnel opens into a wider chamber. Voices carry from around the corner, speaking rapid Russian.

Dante turns to me, pressing a finger to his lips. I nod, understanding. This is where it begins.

He slides around the corner like a shadow, so silent I barely register his movement. There's a muffled thump, then another. No gunshots, no alarm. When I peer around the edge, two guards lie crumpled on the floor, necks twisted at unnatural angles.

Not for the first time, I witness Dante's violence. Only this time, not in defense of me, not in passionate rage, but in cold blooded execution.

He beckons me forward with a slight movement of his head. I follow, stepping carefully over the fallen men.

We navigate a labyrinth of corridors, each more oppressive than the last. Dante moves with deadly speed, neutralizing resistance before it can sound alerts.

One guard appears from a side passage and Dante drives a knife into his throat before the man can even reach for his weapon.

Another rounds a corner, only to receive a bullet between the eyes, the sound suppressed to little more than a soft cough.

Very quickly, it all becomes clear right before my eyes.

This is Dante's world.

The violence, the death, the risk.

I'm literally watching Dante move through the darkness like the predator everyone always claimed him to be. The rumors painted him as a monster. The enforcer who broke men with his bare hands, who carved confessions into flesh, who collected trophies from his kills.

I'd heard it all in whispered conversations at galas, in hushed warnings from my father's associates.

He'll skin you alive and make you watch.

The middle Ravelli brother? Pure violence.

He enjoys the blood. Lives for it.

Then I'd experienced his darkness firsthand when he first took me - the way he marked me as property, controlled every aspect of my existence those first few weeks, showed me exactly what kind of monster he could be.

Yet here I am, my heart racing not from fear but from love as I watch him eliminate threats before my eyes.

Because I've seen beyond the monster. I've found, deep down in the scarred soul, the ghost of a boy who lost his mother, the son who was never good enough, the brother who was made expendable.