The silence in the room was thick, like the haze of an impending storm. Dante’s men stood firm, some with arms crossed over their chests, others with a hand resting near the weapon on their belt. The polygraph still blinked on the monitor, recording the final echoes of the interrogation, while the conspirators at the end of the line shifted with growing unease.

One of them—the tallest and most heavily built—clenched his jaw and slowly pulled his hand from inside his jacket. His gaze darkened, and before anyone could react, he drew his gun and aimed it straight at Dante.

“Nobody move!” he barked, his voice rough, taut with adrenaline.

Time froze. The metal of the gun caught the light from the lamp on the table, and in the blink of an eye, three more followed suit, drawing their pistols in swift, precise motions.

The traitors exchanged looks—fury mixed with grim resolve. But then, the tide turned in an instant.

“Drop your weapons.”

Fabrizzio’s voice cut through the air with chilling cal