The candlelight flickered across the mournful faces, as if even the flames were unsure whether to burn that night.

Dante Bellandi turned to face them.

Men hardened by blood, bullets, and loyalty bought with fear. Their faces were a gallery of scars, wrinkles, and suspicion. And they all looked at him the same way—waiting to see if he would fall… or rise like his father.

There was no room for doubt.

No time to grieve.

With slow, deliberate steps, Dante approached the coffin. Each stride a sentence, each stare a silent judgment. When he reached it, he looked down. At the fallen titan. The monster. His father.

Vittorio Bellandi rested among shadows, eyes closed as if merely asleep.

But he was no longer fearsome.

Not anymore.

Dante swallowed hard.

The silence was thick. Sharp.

Then he spoke.

“My father was a man of iron,” he said, his eyes never leaving the body. “What he built was more than an empire. It was a curse. A legacy of power, yes… but also of death.”

Some of the men exchanged glances. Others lowered their heads.

But no one interrupted.

“I will not follow his path,” Dante continued, his voice rising with each word. “Not because I despise him, but because I am not him. This family needs more than fear to stand. And I… will make my own choices. My own way.”

The room trembled in its silence.

It wasn’t just a statement.

It was a threat.

Dante stepped back.

One of the capos—an old soldier with a face carved by war—crossed himself. Another raised a trembling hand to light a cigarette.

They didn’t see a boy anymore.

Not now.

They saw something far more dangerous:

A Bellandi who thought.

Dante turned on his heel. The cold marble of the mausoleum groaned beneath his boots as he walked away.

But in his mind, a voice echoed like a curse.

“Power is not inherited, Dante. It is taken.”

His father’s words still pierced his chest like a blade that wouldn’t stop bleeding.

And now, he knew what he had to do.

Take everything.

Even if it meant burning to get it.

★★★★★

The Bellandi villa slept.

Or at least pretended to.

Outside, the gardens stretched like a painting in shadows: cypress trees trimmed with surgical precision, nude statues bathed in moonlight, and a fountain that murmured like it knew too much. Inside, the white marble walls breathed silence like a secret. The lamps—few and faint—barely dared to light the main hallway.

Everything was still.

Everything was waiting.

Until it wasn’t.

Fabio stood by the office window, slowly inhaling the scent of the night air: lavender, old wood… and sleeping gunpowder. Cigarette smoke still hung in the room, as if the ghost of Vittorio—the old boss—refused to leave his throne.

Fabio didn’t miss him.

New loyalties.

New game.

New rules.

The door creaked open with a subtle groan. A heavyset man stepped inside. Black shirt. Unkempt beard. Eyes of someone who’d done things never spoken of.

“Fabio,” he greeted, voice rough.

“Is it done?” Fabio asked without turning, still watching the fountain.

“Yes. She’s on her way. No questions. No witnesses.”

A tense second stretched like wire before snapping with a crooked smile on Fabio’s lips.

The plan was in motion.

He walked calmly to the bar. Poured a glass of whisky. The good one. The kind Vittorio only used to end wars.

“I want Signore Dante to receive his gift as soon as possible,” he said with the calm assurance of a man about to unleash chaos.

The other man frowned.

“I don’t get it… Why her? What’s so special about this woman?”

Fabio looked at him. And in his eyes, something flickered—something more than strategy.

“Because he hasn’t stopped thinking about her since the first moment he saw her.”

He took a slow sip, letting the burn sear old memories.

“It was in Moscow. Two years ago. Christmas gala at the Bolshoi. She was dancing… and he saw her. The rest of the theater disappeared.”

Silence fell like a stone slab. No one dared mention what happened that night. No one spoke of the body.

“He tried to approach her,” Fabio continued. “But we were called back to Italy on short notice. He never saw her again.”

“And now you’re… giving her to him? Like a gift?”

Fabio nodded, the crystal glass clinking softly against the wood.

“Men like Dante don’t ask for what they want. They take it. I’m just making it easier for him.”

“And if she doesn’t want him? If she hates him for this?”

A dry laugh escaped Fabio’s lips.

Humorless.

Merciless.

“Let her hate him. Hate is better than indifference. Let her scream, let her bite, curse him…”

His fingers slowly traced the rim of the glass.

“But let her feel. Because that’s all that matters—

that he feels something real.”

Outside, thunder tore across the sky.

The storm hadn't arrived yet.

But it was coming.

Like her.

Like desire.

Like the beginning of something… irreversible.

★★★★★

The cold woke her.

Not the kind of winter chill that seeps beneath your skin. No.

This was different.

This was the cold of metal.

Of fear.

Svetlana blinked. The light was dim, golden—strangely warm for what felt like hell. But the low hum that filled the space anchored her to reality: she was trapped. Disoriented. Her body weighed heavy, as if every muscle were soaked in lead. Around her, shadows danced on panels of polished wood. A luxury that felt tainted.

She tried to sit up. Dizziness struck like a blow.

And then she remembered.

The men.

The van.

The drug.

The soaked cloth.

The useless struggle.

Panic gripped her throat.

“Help!” she screamed, her voice hoarse and ragged. She pounded the door with her fists—once, twice, ten times. “Let me out, you bastards!”

But her desperation bounced back at her from the walls, as solid and merciless as her sentence.

The room was a prison dressed as a suite: a table, a chair, a tray of water… and silence. Nothing else. No windows. No clocks. Just the echo of her ragged breathing.

This wasn’t an ordinary kidnapping.

Her stomach twisted. She clenched her fists. The fear was real—but so was the fury.

“When I see him…” she muttered through clenched teeth, “I’ll spit in his face. Whoever he is. I’ll make him bleed.”

The click of a lock stopped her cold.

The door opened.

A man stepped inside. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Black fitted shirt. Muscles tense like coiled wire. His face was a marble mask—expressionless, unhurried.

Svetlana backed away instantly. Her spine hit the wall. Her heart slammed against her ribs like a battering ram.

He placed a plate on the table and left without a word, closing the door behind him with a sharp thud that rattled her bones.

She remained frozen, panting like a cornered animal.

The plate held bread, cheese, fruit. Simple food. Almost gentle. But to her, it looked like poison dressed up to look kind.

“Go to hell!” she screamed, hurling the tray at the door. The metal clanged, and the bread rolled across the floor as if it, too, wanted to escape.

Hot tears blurred her vision. Anger burned through her—but fear seeped into every crack.

And then, a voice.

A deep, male voice, laced with a foreign accent. It emerged from an unseen speaker, sliding across her skin like a blade.

“Stop screaming. No one’s coming to save you. You’re a long way from home, Russian girl.”

Svetlana looked up. A camera rotated slowly from the ceiling, aiming down at her like the eye of a cruel god.

“Who are you? What do you want from me?” she shouted between sobs, her voice splintering.

Silence answered. The hum of machinery. The low, constant vibration beneath her.

And then she understood.

This wasn’t a room.

It was a plane.

Her mind clicked into place: the pressure in her ears, the recycled air, the gentle sway.

“They’re taking me out of the country,” she whispered in Russian, trembling. She sank to the floor, hugging her knees.

“Why me?”

But no one answered.

Not the camera.

Not the speaker.

Not God.

Only the faint hiss… of gas.

White smoke began to seep in from beneath the door. Thick. Sweet.

“No… not again…” she gasped, struggling to stand. But her legs wouldn’t move. Her eyes burned.

The world tilted.

The lights went out.

And before the darkness swallowed her whole, only one thought echoed in her mind:

Will I ever see them again?

Anya?

Mama?

Papa?