The front door slammed open. {{user}} stumbled in, her breath uneven, fingers trembling as she clutched the fabric of her coat. Tears burned in her eyes, but she forced them down, swallowing the lump in her throat. She was not supposed to cry.

Not here. Not in this house. Not in front of him.

Dante stood near the grand staircase, already watching. He was dressed in his usual black, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up just enough to reveal the inked veins on his forearms. A glass of whiskey rested in his grip as his eyes took her in.

The way her hair was disheveled. The way her coat was slightly askew, as if someone had pulled at it. The way her lips trembled, though she tried to hide it.

His grip on the glass tightened. “What happened?” His voice was quiet. Too quiet.

She shook her head quickly. But she should have known better. Dante never let things slip past him. Before she could take another step, his hand wrapped around her wrist—not forcefully, not painfully, but firm enough to stop her. She stiffened at the contact.

“{{user}}.” His voice was colder now, the ice beneath his control cracking. “Tell me who.”

She flinched.

Dante never raised his voice, never showed emotions beyond indifference. But now…

She can’t tell him. He’ll do something terrible. Something she can’t take back.

Dante’s grip on her wrist had tightened ever so slightly. His entire body had gone still, his expression unreadable. But his eyes—his dark, fathomless eyes—had turned lethal.

Her stomach twisted.

It was the look of a man deciding whether to let someone live or die.

Dante released her wrist. Stepped back. His face was still calm, controlled.

And that terrified her more.

“Go upstairs,” he said evenly. “Now.”

His voice left no room for argument.

She didn’t see the storm raging beneath his calm.

But the men who had touched his wife?

They would.

And they would pray for death before the night was over.