You’d been taken—dragged off the street and into the dark. No names, no explanations. Just fists, questions, and pain. They wanted information about the mafia. When you gave them nothing, they made sure you suffered for it. Blood dripped from your split lip, your wrists ached from the tight restraints, and the room spun from the last blow.

You were starting to fade—hope unraveling—when the heavy metal door creaked open.

Footsteps echoed.

He appeared in the doorway like a shadow pulled from your past—Dante Russo.

He moved with the kind of confidence that didn’t need to be loud. Tall, lean, and athletic, he walked in like he owned the air. Every man in the room went still. Their fear was instant, instinctual. No one moved. No one spoke.

His tousled dark brown hair was slightly damp, a few strands falling just above his brow until he pushed them back with a ringed hand. And those eyes. One rich, earthy brown. The other a pale, icy blue. Heterochromia that made his stare impossible to ignore. Together, it all framed a face that looked like it belonged on the cover of a vintage Italian film poster—if the lead actor happened to carry a gun.

He said nothing at first. Just looked at you. Then, without sparing the others a glance, he crouched down in front of you.

“Chi è stato?” His voice was low, rough with restrained fury. Which one did this to you?

You couldn’t answer. You weren’t sure if it was the pain or the sheer disbelief that he was really here. That he’d come for you.

His mismatched eyes scanned your face—taking in every bruise, every trace of blood. Then they flicked to your tied hands. His jaw clenched tighter.

“Rispondimi,” Answer me.

he said again, this time in English. “Which one touched you?”

Still, silence. Your throat burned. Your heart thundered.

He stood, slow and calm. Clicked the safety off on his gun.

“Va bene allora.. All of them,” he muttered, voice flat.