Page 41

Trigger Warning: Torture, blood, physical violence, emotional manipulation, psychological tension, obsessive behavior.

¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤

The basement beneath the Vitale tower was built for silence.

No screams reached the surface.

No light escaped the walls.

And tonight—no mercy would be found inside it.

Dante stood alone in the center of the reinforced chamber, sleeves rolled, dark slacks pressed perfectly, shirt fitted tight to his frame.

He looked immaculate except for the gleam in his eyes.

Cold.

Dead.

Alive with vengeance.

Before him, Roza was chained upright, her arms spread, metal cuffs digging into her wrists.

Her crimson gown had been reduced to strips—hanging like torn flags from her hips. Blood streaked down one thigh.

Still, she smiled.

“You used to kiss me with that mouth,” she rasped.

Dante picked up a thin blade from the tray beside him.

Long.

Curved.

Surgical.

His voice was calm. Low.

“I also used to think you were irreplaceable.”

He moved closer.

No rush.

He stepped into her space, tilting her chin up with two fingers. Her jaw was bruised. Her lip split. Her eyes still defiant.

“You broke into my world,” he whispered. “Touched what was sacred.”

“Touched?” Roza laughed, broken and beautiful. “I showed her what you are.”

He didn’t blink.

Instead, he pressed the blade to her collarbone—and dragged.

Slow.

Roza hissed, back arching.

Blood welled immediately, sliding in a red line down her chest.

He watched her face the entire time.

“You’re not hurting me,” she gasped.

“I’m not trying to.”

He reached for the glass bowl of salt water beside the tray.

“Soften the skin first,” he murmured to himself, as if quoting a memory. “Then peel slowly.”

He dipped the blade again and moved to her side—drew another slice across her lower ribs.

She screamed this time.

He stepped back.

Admired the way the red spilled over the curve of her waist.

“You always did bleed prettier than you cried,” he said coldly.

Upstairs, Isolde sat on the balcony, Dante’s black robe wrapped around her frame, her knees pulled to her chest.

She could hear nothing.

Not a sound.

But she knew what he was doing.

She closed her eyes.

And still loved him.

Still felt safe.

Still needed him like breath.

She remembered how his hands shook when he held her after the kidnapping.

How he kissed her palms and whispered he would never let anyone touch her again.

Even if he had to rip the world apart.

Below, Dante circled Roza like a wolf at prayer.

“You want to know what the difference between you and her is?” he asked, voice cool as steel.

Roza was panting, trembling now. Blood dripped to the floor.

“She begged me to let her stay.”

He moved behind her. Pulled her head back by her hair.

“She chose me.”

Then he dipped the blade again.

And began to cut deeper.

Hours later

He emerged from the elevator in silence.

Isolde stood waiting, barefoot, her braid undone, her eyes soft and searching.

She didn’t ask what he’d done.

She only reached for him.

He let her wrap her arms around his waist, bury her face in his chest.

And for the first time in hours—his hands trembled again.

But only when they were on her. “You’re safe now,” he whispered.

“I was safe when I was with you,” she said, voice barely audible.

He pulled her tighter.

She smiled.

Because he was hers.

And she was slowly learning—

She belonged to the monster.