(MARCELLO'S POV)
The dust hits me first.
It hangs thick in the air when I step back into the main hall, coating my tongue, burning the back of my throat.
I stop in my tracks.
Crystal chandeliers that once hung like crowns from my ceiling now lie shattered across marble. Twisted metal arms spear through bodies. Glass is everywhere. Pools of blood stretch across the floor, catching the light in dull, dark reflections.
Some of my men are crushed flat beneath the wreckage. Others are impaled. Limbs bent in directions no limb should be able to bend.
The ones still alive cough violently, trying to breathe through the debris. One of them crawls, dragging a broken leg behind him.
This is what they've done in my home.
Dante and Arianna approach me.
They stop in front of me, both of them covered in dust, blood splattered across their clothes. They exchange a tense glance before looking at me.
Dante hesitates before he finally says, "Padre, sono scappati." (Dad, they got away.)
