The night wrapped the Bellandi estate in a deceptive silence, broken only by the occasional creak of wood and the distant whisper of wind slipping through the trees. The old cellar, hidden behind a row of cypress trees, was the perfect refuge for those who wanted to speak without being overheard. The air inside was thick with smoke and distrust, making the atmosphere heavy like a storm about to break.

While Dante still struggled to regain his composure, to stop thinking about her, in another corner of his domain, betrayals were simmering slowly.

“This whole thing is bullshit,” a man said in a rough, sharp voice, pounding his fist on the table.

His gaze locked onto another present, a veteran with scarred hands, who frowned and straightened in his chair.

“In my fifteen years working for the Bellandi, no one had ever doubted my loyalty,” he growled, clenching his jaw.

“They’re not just doubting yours,” a second man interjected, his tone dry and cutting like a knife.

“He doubts everyone,”