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The boutique smelled like soft perfume and old money.

Isolde walked slowly through the glass-lined aisles, her hand brushing along velvet sleeves and silk blouses.

She wore a fitted beige trench coat, open over a cream turtleneck dress that clung to her waist.

Her hair fell in a thick braid down her back, lashes casting soft shadows on her flushed cheeks.

Two of Dante’s men followed ten paces behind.

Both were heavily armed, earpieces in place, jackets designed to conceal their weapons.

They didn’t look at the clothes.

They looked at everyone else.

“I’ll only be a few more minutes,” Isolde had told Dante that morning.

He’d frowned. “You leave with Alex or no one.”

Alex had been called away on a separate mission. But she hadn’t wanted to delay.

Now, standing in front of a mirror, she adjusted a gold necklace at her throat and exhaled, cheeks glowing with rare peace.

For a moment, she felt almost normal.

And then—

Everything shattered.

It started with a scream outside.

One of the guards turned instantly toward the door.

“Stay with her,” he barked to the other.

But the moment he reached the exit, the glass exploded inward.

A flash grenade went off.

The room filled with white smoke.

Isolde gasped, stumbling backward, clutching the necklace still hanging from her hand.

She heard footsteps.

Running.

Shouting.

Then the other guard grunted.

A heavy thud.

“Dante—!” she screamed into the haze.

And then—arms.

Rough. Fast.

A cloth pressed to her mouth.

The scent was chemical. Sweet.

Chloroform.

She thrashed, kicking, panic rising—but it was already too late.

Darkness swallowed her whole.

Twenty minutes later – Dante’s Tower

The call came directly to his encrypted line.

Dante stood at the bar in the penthouse lounge, one hand braced against the marble, the other wrapped around a whiskey glass he hadn’t touched.

His sleeves were rolled, his jaw clenched, his eyes already cold.

Alex entered mid-ring.

“Still no update from their side—”

The ringtone cut through.

Private line. No ID.

Dante answered.

He didn’t speak.

But the voice on the other end did. “You forgot how fast I am when I’m hungry.”

Roza.

Dante’s spine straightened.

His breath stilled.

“She’s pretty,” Roza purred. “I can see why you keep her locked up like gold in a bank vault. But even banks fall. And now I have your favorite deposit.”

He said nothing.

Because his rage was too thick to speak through. “If you want her breathing,” she said sweetly, “come alone. No men. No guns. Or I start carving pieces.”

Click.

Abandoned mansion – outskirts of the city

The gate groaned open at Dante’s approach.

He drove himself.

Alone.

Black Bugatti. Bulletproof glass. His sleeves rolled, his forearms glinting with blood from a half-healed wound. His eyes were black.

He moved like he’d already killed everyone in the house in his mind.

Inside, candles lined the marble steps.

The grand hallway was littered with petals—red like blood.

And there, in the center of the ballroom—

Isolde.

Unconscious.

Laid out like a sacrifice on a divan of crushed velvet. Her coat gone.

Her dress torn at the sleeve. Her bare legs exposed, but untouched.

Her lips were pale.

Her head turned slightly toward him.

She looked like a broken angel.

And standing behind her—

Roza.

In red.

Her heels clicked softly as she descended the steps.

“Welcome home, Dante.”