Dante:
My abdomen was throbbing, each breath sending sharp jolts of pain through my chest, and I groaned, slowly opening my eyes to a world blurred and dimly lit, shadows stretching across the walls like sinister fingers, my head pounding, my vision swimming, and as I shook it trying to clear the fog, the horrifying realization hit me—my hands and legs were tied, my body heavy, every movement a struggle, and I cursed under my breath, a harsh, bitter sound that seemed swallowed by the silence of the room, my eyes widening as they landed on someone lying across the floor, and it was her, my Mia Cara, my Danna, unconscious, her head tilted to the side, tears streaking her cheeks, a cloth over her mouth, the sight of her so small, so fragile, igniting a fire of panic and fury inside me that made my heart hammer like it would burst, and despite the pain in my abdomen, I crawled toward her, every scrape of my hands against the cold floor a reminder of my weakness, and I whispered her name softly, "Danna," but there was no response, no flicker of recognition in her eyes, and the room suddenly felt colder, darker, more oppressive, when the door opened and a group of men flooded in, their shadows looming, and then, the one I had dreaded the most, the one I hated more than anyone, stepped forward—my father.
"How is my dear son?" he said, smirking like a predator, his eyes glinting with cruelty, and I could only groan in disbelief, the blood pounding in my ears as he lifted a gun and pressed it against my temple, and for a brief, sickening moment, I laughed, a humorless, hollow sound that did nothing to hide the fear curling in my chest. "Thanks, Dad," I muttered, my jaw tight, my body tense with every ounce of restrained rage I could summon, and he punched me, hard, but I didn't flinch, didn't even let a whimper escape, because my reason to live, my anchor in the storm of pain and fear, was the soft, muffled form of Danna lying helplessly in front of me, and when he gestured to one of his men, and that man grabbed her roughly by the arm, a surge of rage unlike anything I had ever known coursed through me, my teeth grinding as I warned, "Don't touch her," but they ignored me, and my father, that monster, pressed the gun against her delicate forehead instead, laughing like he owned the world, and I forced myself upright, uncoiling from the ropes that had barely held me, trying not to show the agony in my abdomen, only to be dragged back to my knees by his men, my body screaming in rebellion, and he came closer, looming, his shadow swallowing her trembling form, and she suddenly gasped, muffled screams spilling from her mouth as fear overtook her, and I stared, my vision narrowing to a single point of focus, one thought hammering in my head: I will not let him hurt her. I will not.
"I will make it quick now," my father said, his voice low and slick with the kind of false calm that carried more danger than a shout, and from the table beside him he grabbed a neat stack of papers, the edges sharp, the scent of ink fresh, crouching down until he was level with me, his face close enough for me to smell the faint trace of his cologne mixed with the metallic tang of the gun he had just held against my head. "Here," he said, holding up two sheets between his fingers like they were some kind of prize, glancing at them briefly before reading aloud with a smug tilt of his mouth, "Marriage certificate… Divorce certificate," and his smile twisted into something ugly, something only a man completely void of love could produce. "If you wanna save your pretty little wife," he murmured, almost gently, "then sign them."
I stared back at him, my glare sharp enough to cut glass, my voice rough with pain but steady. "What is it?" I groaned, though I already knew he wouldn't answer without twisting the knife further.
"Tsk, tsk…" he clicked his tongue like I was a disobedient child, his free hand shooting out to grab my chin roughly, forcing my head up so I had no choice but to meet his eyes. "Do you want to save your wife?"
"Let me see first," I said coldly, each word coated in ice.
For a brief second, his men hesitated, but with a flick of his hand, they released me, and I snatched the papers from him roughly, my fingers tightening on the edge as I unfolded them. My eyes scanned the first sheet—my jaw tightening with every line—and there it was: a marriage contract. Not to Danna. Not to the woman who was my reason for breathing. No. To Alessia. And beside it, a divorce decree, a clean, cold severing of the only bond that mattered. My vision narrowed, the edges of the paper crumpling beneath my grip.
"What the actual f**k…" I muttered, my voice low, venom curling around each syllable as I looked up at him. "You want me to marry Alessia… and divorce Danna?" I laughed then, not because it was funny, but because the absurdity of it was so foul that the only thing left to do was let the madness spill out in the hollow sound of my amusement. "You really think I will divorce her?"
His expression darkened instantly, the faint flicker of irritation flaring into something more dangerous, and his eyes slid toward Danna. "You don't love her, do you?" he asked, the words more like a challenge than a question.
"Dad…" I said, my voice lowering to something colder than steel. "Don't even think about hurting her."
But my warning was ignored—brushed aside like it was meaningless—because one of his men shoved her forward, rough enough to make her stumble, and before I could even take a breath, my father's hand shot out, fisting in her hair so cruelly that her muffled cry tore through me like a blade, her body jerking as he forced her head back, pressing the muzzle of his gun against her temple.
"I will end her," he said, smiling like the idea pleased him.
My vision blurred for a second—not from the pain in my body, but from the rage clawing its way up my throat, threatening to spill over into something I might never be able to control. My hand tightened around the pen he had tossed in front of me, the weight of it heavy, my knuckles whitening. "Why do you want me to marry Alessia? Whether she loves me or not isn't my concern—I don't love her, she is nothing to me," I said, my voice dripping with disdain as I met his gaze without flinching.
"You think she loved you?" he sneered. "No… she worked for me. And if you marry her, we'd get her father's property, half of his share, his group… and we'd be powerful."
For a second, the world seemed to tilt, my breath catching, my mind reeling—not because of the revelation about Alessia, but because it confirmed what deep down I had always known. My own father didn't care about me. He didn't care about her. All he cared about was land, money, power—and the name tied to it. George's empire.
"That's rich…" I muttered, laughing darkly, the sound echoing in the tense air.
"Exactly," he said, as if my words had been agreement instead of mockery. "I will give you half of the share… and when you two have children, you will be the next heir."
I pushed forward, every muscle in my body screaming in protest, but I didn't care—not when my father's filthy hands were on her. With one sharp shove, I tore him away from Danna, my arm pressing against his chest as I forced him back. She stumbled away, her wrists trembling against the ropes, her muffled cry filling the room like a dagger twisting deeper into my chest.
His men immediately surged forward, fists tightening around their weapons, but he raised a single hand, halting them with nothing more than his command. They froze, watching, waiting—like vultures circling a carcass—while I moved closer, my breaths ragged but steady, my heart hammering with something far stronger than fear.
I seized his wrist, the one still holding the gun, and yanked it upward, dragging the barrel against my own skin until it rested cold and heavy against the center of my forehead. My lips twisted into a smile that wasn't amusement but defiance, sharp and cutting.
"End me," I said, my voice low, almost mocking. "Go on. Pull the trigger. After all, I'll be useless—just like you always said."
He faltered for the briefest second, his grip tightening around the weapon, his eyes narrowing at the smirk that refused to leave my face.
"You remember?" I continued, my words dripping with venom. "The day I fought your cousin's son… he punched me once, and I fell unconscious. I woke up to your voice—not helping me, not guiding me, but spitting words at me. Useless, you said. Weak. Not worth the Moretti name." My smile widened, humorless and sharp, cutting through the dimly lit room. "You told me I would never help you. That I couldn't even fight."
My fingers curled tighter around his wrist, forcing the barrel harder into my skull, my eyes never leaving his. "You were wrong. I was never weak. I was never yours. And you want to know the truth?" My voice dropped to a growl. "I never killed her. I never killed my sister. It was you. You killed her, just like you killed my mother every day with your threats, your fists, your cruelty."
His eyes darkened, rage searing into me, the mask of control cracking with each word I threw back at him.
"I never worked for you, Dad," I spat the word like it burned my tongue. "I worked against you. Every step I took in your empire, every deal, every kill, every lie—I did it to destroy you. And the best part?" I leaned closer, my smile brushing the edge of madness. "You never even saw it coming. You walked right into my trap."
For a moment, silence reigned. The kind that burned louder than any scream, the kind that pressed against my chest like a vice. Then his teeth clenched, his voice a low growl of disbelief and fury.
"Aren't you after my empire?" he hissed.
I shook my head slowly, deliberately, never once looking away. "No," I whispered, my voice like poison. "I'm after you. For my mother. For my sister. For every scar you carved into my soul."
My father's jaw locked so tightly I could hear the grind of his teeth."What is the evidence?" he roared. "How will you prove I killed them, huh?"
I tilted my head, my smirk unfaltering, refusing to move even an inch. "Then let me recite a story, shall I?"
The room seemed to vanish as my voice carried us back—back to the Morretti villa, back to the years when the scent of my mother's perfume still lingered in the halls, and my sister's laughter still echoed through the night.
I saw it clear, as though the walls themselves were mocking him with the memory.
"Stop scolding him, honey," my mother's voice was gentle, her hands raised as though her calm could soothe the storm brewing in my father's eyes. "He will learn by himself. Give him time."
My sister's arms tightened around me protectively, shielding me from his wrath.
But my father's face twisted with fury. "He is a useless shit!" he spat. "Look what he did now—my own family mocking me because of this weakling."
"He is not useless," my mother insisted softly. "He will learn. Please, give him some time."
His hand came down across her face, the sound of the slap cracking through the room. My head snapped to the side, and rage like I'd never known before burned in my sister's eyes. She stood, her voice shaking with anger.
"Dad! This isn't right. How can you slap Mom? Dante is just a child, he's new to fighting. He'll learn!"
"Stop talking!" he thundered. "Do you even know what it took me years to build? My reputation! You dare take your brother's side against me?"
"You're being dramatic!" my sister fired back, her voice breaking but firm. "People mocking you isn't the point! Care about him. Care about what happens to Dante!"
His eyes blazed, and I thought he would strike her too. My small hands balled into fists, and I stepped between them, my voice trembling but cold.
"Don't touch my sister."
He laughed—loud, ugly, cruel. "So, the piece of shit unites with his protector."
"Please," my mother's voice cracked as she stepped in, her eyes pleading. "Let us have peace for once. Act like a father. Act like a husband. Won't you?"
But he only scoffed, shaking his head with a sinister grin. "Already too late." He left, his footsteps echoing like a death sentence.
That night, I couldn't sleep. My chest felt heavy, my sister's words replaying in my head, my mother's plea ringing like a whisper in the silence.
I went downstairs. The living room was cloaked in shadows, the ticking of the clock unnaturally loud. My sister was lying on the couch, her face half-hidden beneath her hair.
I thought she was asleep.
"...Sis?" I whispered, shaking her shoulder gently. No response. My stomach twisted. I brushed her hair away, and my world cracked open.
Her skin was cold. Her lips pale. Her body lifeless.
"No," I breathed, my chest collapsing in on itself. My feet stumbled as I ran, panic clawing at me. "Mom! Mom!" I burst into their bedroom. My father wasn't there. Only my mother.
She lay perfectly still. Her chest unmoving. Her hand—when I touched it—cold as ice.
"Mom," I whispered again, barely a sound. "Mom…"
The glass slipped from my trembling hand and shattered at my feet, but the silence in the room was louder.
That was the night I learned the truth. The night the boy in me died.