The first thing Dante did upon waking was to order everyone removed from the dungeons. After seeing Svetlana in such a state, it no longer seemed reasonable to keep Olivia and Enzo under those conditions. A week had been more than enough of a lesson.

Fiorella, however, was a different story—he still had unfinished business with her.

“Bring her to me,” he ordered, his voice firm as he settled into his study, elbows resting on the desk and fingers interlaced.

His head still throbbed with the weight of everything that had happened. The image of Svetlana—broken and vulnerable in his arms—haunted him with unbearable persistence.

When the door opened and Fiorella stepped in, she was already bathed and dressed, immaculate, as if nothing had happened. She stopped a few paces from his desk and gave a slight nod in a gesture of respect, but her eyes shimmered with arrogance.

Dante didn’t waste time.

“What happened?” he asked bluntly, his voice cracking through the air like a whip.

Fiorella stra