The low, steady roar of the engines filled the cabin of the private jet as they cut through the sky, heading back to Aspromonte. Dante reclined in his black leather seat, elbows resting on the armrests, fingers interlaced in front of his mouth. The tension weighed on his shoulders like a heavy slab, and though his gaze was fixed on the window, he saw nothing at all.

He had wanted to return the next day, but unfinished business kept him in Milan longer than planned. Endless days with barely a moment to breathe, each hour marked by tension and the burden of decisions that couldn’t be delayed. There was no time to miss Svetlana—or at least that’s what he tried to convince himself. Yet every dawn, in those brief moments before exhaustion pulled him under, her memory struck him with unexpected force.

Milan had left a bitter taste. He hadn’t rested for a second, and the responsibility of retrieving Franco’s body only added weight to his already overloaded mind. Now, his only priority was to