The storm hit before Dante reached the safehouse.
Rain hammered the windshield in relentless sheets, blurring the road into a smear of silver and shadow, but he didn't slow. He couldn't. Every mile between him and Aria clawed at him, every second stretched, twisted, threatened to snap something inside his chest.
The ambush had been too clean. Too intentional. Too perfectly timed.
Which meant only one thing:
Someone on the inside wanted her gone.
And Dante would gut the world until he found who.
He pulled up to the secluded estate, nothing more than reinforced walls, black steel doors, and darkness hugging the corners like ghosts, and the front guards straightened instantly.
"Boss," one of them said, but Dante didn't even acknowledge him. His pace was a knife as he strode inside, shoes slamming against marble.
He needed to see her.
Needed to see that she was breathing.
