Unspoken Truths

Isabella took a deep breath, her fingers curling around the edge of the couch as she spoke. The memories she had locked away, the ones that had haunted her, started spilling out in a way she couldn't stop. She needed to say it—needed to get it off her chest.

"When I was seventeen" she began, her voice soft but steady, "they.....kidnapped me. I don't know how or why, but they took me. Thankfully, no one touched me, but they didn't feed me for three days." Her eyes grew distant, and Dante watched her closely, his expression unreadable, though his hand instinctively reached for hers, offering silent support.

She continued, her voice cracking slightly. "On the fourth day, when they freed me, they were almost… scared of me. I think it was because I didn't break. I didn't cry. I didn't beg. I just… I don't know. But they were afraid. And that's when they let me go."

Isabella's gaze dropped to her lap, her fingers fidgeting with the bandage around her wrist. "When I got home, Marco believed Giulia's story—believed that I was with a man, that I'd run away. He slapped me when he saw me. Even though I was so sick, barely able to stand, he still did that. I—" She stopped herself, blinking away the tears that threatened to fall.

Dante's grip on her hand tightened, but he didn't say anything, letting her speak her truth.

"But my mother…" Isabella's voice softened as she spoke of her mother, the one constant in her life. "When she saw me, she knew. She knew what had happened. The first thing she did wasn't yell, or ask questions. She just—she fed me." Isabella's voice trembled now, but she smiled faintly at the memory. "It was the first real food I had since I'd been taken. It was like she knew that was what I needed the most. She didn't even say anything. She just… fed me."

Dante's jaw clenched as he processed everything she said. His anger was palpable, but he remained composed, his eyes dark and filled with determination.

When she finished, Dante stood up abruptly, the calm facade he had been holding onto slipping slightly. "I'm going to see someone" he said, his tone icy and controlled, but there was an undercurrent of something far more intense. "This is far from over."

Isabella's eyes widened as she watched him. "Dante—"

He looked back at her, his face hardening with resolve. "I'll handle it," he said quietly. "No one hurts you and gets away with it. Not now. Not ever."

She watched him leave, her heart racing, a part of her grateful for the protection he was offering, but another part of her terrified of what Dante would do in his pursuit of vengeance. Still, she knew he was doing this because of her—and that meant everything.

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The restaurant was quiet, save for the clinking of cutlery and the soft hum of distant conversations. Dante sat across from Lucia, his piercing gaze fixed on her, the tension palpable between them. He wasn't here for pleasantries, and neither was she. What had started as a protective, silent mother figure now shifted into the strong, confident woman she had always been. She raised an eyebrow, sensing the gravity of the moment.

"Do you really think" Dante's voice was low, almost casual, but every word was laced with menace, "that I couldn't find your information? I need the name lucia"

Lucia feigned innocence, her lips curving into a slight, controlled smile. "I'm not sure what you mean, Dante."

But Dante didn't buy it. He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing slightly. "You may have played this game before, but if you think I can't uncover the truth, you're wrong."

The smile faltered. Lucia dropped the pretense, her eyes turning steely as she met his gaze head-on. She knew when she was beaten. "His name is Mikhail" she said coolly. "Mikhail Karpov. You may know him as Lucifer. He's two years older than me, and yes, I'm aware of the implications."

Lucia paused before continuing. "He's the one who answered my call when Isabella was taken. He was the one who saved her." she said the name like it was nothing, but Dante felt the weight of it. This man, Lucifer, had saved Isabella when she was at her weakest.

Lucia's eyes softened, but the steely determination in them remained. "Now, he's dealt with the Russian gang. The same men who were with Giulia."

Dante's hands clenched into fists, his calm demeanor barely holding as he processed the information. A name that powerful, a man like that—it was clear now how deep the web of this situation ran.

Without another word, Dante stood up abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. His expression was cold, his movements measured, but the fury behind his eyes was unmistakable. "I'm going to kill Marco."

Lucia didn't even blink at his words. She simply looked at him, her gaze unwavering, a quiet understanding passing between them. She knew this man, knew the lengths he would go to, and in this moment, her silence was her agreement.

"Do what you must" Lucia said, her voice almost a whisper, but her eyes were sharp with the weight of her own intentions. Dante nodded once, his focus unyielding, and left the restaurant, the heavy weight of the conversation still lingering in the air.

As he walked away, the resolve in his heart was clear—no one who harmed Isabella, not even her own blood, would go unpunished.

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The cold, sterile silence of the room was shattered by the sound of a door being torn off its hinges. The men who held Marco Romano in place were trembling, though not from fear—more so from the anticipation of the storm that was about to unfold before them. They'd seen the rumors, heard the whispers of the man who was known as Il Diavolo, Dante Vitale, but nothing had prepared them for what was about to transpire.

Dante entered the room, his presence a suffocating force, his aura thick with violence. He was calm, dangerously calm. The air itself seemed to bow under his power, as if it knew the destruction he was about to unleash. The light flickered above, casting shadows that twisted unnaturally, almost as if the room itself recoiled from the violence to come.

Marco, bloodshot and drunken, looked up from where he had been dragged to the ground. His breath came in short, ragged gasps, his eyes wide with a dawning terror that spread like wildfire across his face. "What... what do you want?" Marco's voice cracked, the bravado fading quickly as he realized the reality of the situation.

Dante's lip curled in a cruel smile as he stepped closer, the sound of his boots against the floor echoing ominously. "You hurt my wife, Marco. And for that, you'll pay."

Without another word, Dante pulled a knife from his belt, its blade gleaming in the dim light, almost eagerly. Marco's heart pounded in his chest as he struggled, trying to escape, but his body was too weak, his muscles too battered. With a swift motion, Dante sliced the air, his blade finding its mark in Marco's leg. The sound of tearing flesh echoed loudly as Marco let out a strangled scream. The room seemed to shake with the force of his agony, but Dante remained unfazed, his eyes cold and unfeeling.

Marco gasped, clutching his thigh as blood poured from the wound. "Please—stop" he begged, but Dante's eyes burned with an intensity that only deepened the fear within Marco's chest.

"No mercy for those who harm what's mine" Dante's voice was a guttural growl as he twisted the knife deeper, savoring the sound of Marco's pain. "You will regret the day you ever laid a hand on her."

For hours, Dante subjected Marco to torment so cruel, so brutal, that it would become etched into the man's very soul. Every strike of Dante's hand, every movement of the blade, was calculated, slow, and agonizing. Dante wanted Marco to feel every inch of the suffering he had caused Isabella. His body became a map of pain—broken bones, deep gashes, and bruises so dark they nearly consumed his entire torso.

Marco's screams became weak and hoarse, and his body trembled violently with each new wound. He begged for mercy, but Dante did not relent. His face remained a mask of cold fury, his eyes hollow and distant. There was no compassion in him now. This was retribution.

Eventually, Marco collapsed to the floor, his body mangled beyond recognition, the blood pooling around him in a dark, sticky mess. Dante stood over him, wiping his hands on a nearby cloth. His eyes were emotionless, void of any sympathy. To him, this was justice.

"Let this be a lesson to anyone who thinks they can harm what belongs to me" Dante said softly, his voice as cold as the steel of the blade. "You're lucky I am letting you due on your own."