Time had stopped for Dante.

Since the doors had closed behind the stretcher carrying Svetlana, he hadn’t looked away. He stood there, unmoving, like a predator lying in wait—but his chest was tight with a kind of anguish he didn’t know how to contain. His mind clung to a single thought:

Is she still alive?

The hallway of the private hospital was cold and impersonal, lit by harsh fluorescent lights that clashed with the dried blood on his hands. Her blood. Svetlana’s blood.

Fabio stayed close, watching him with a mix of concern and resignation. He knew this wouldn’t end well either way. If Svetlana died, Dante would burn everything to the ground.

And if she lived... he would too.

Inside the operating room, the atmosphere was frenetic.

“I need more saline! Her pulse is still unstable!” barked the surgeon, his voice steady but urgent.

Bright surgical lights cast sharp shadows over faces hidden behind masks. Svetlana lay on the table, her skin pale—almost translucent—beneath the bloodstai