The silence in Dante’s office was thick oppressive. The low hum of Verdi’s Requiem drifted from the vintage record player behind him, its mournful tones matching the storm rumbling at the horizon. He stood with his back to the room, tall frame silhouetted by the window, a cigarette between his fingers burning low and bitter

Bella he said, without turning. A cold smile curled faintly at the corner of his mouth, visible in the glass reflection “Did you finish cleaning up that mess in Trapani? Or did your conscience start whispering again?”

The flick of a lighter cracked the quiet again. Another one lit before the last had burned out.

“They had a child,” you said simply. Outside, the storm had broken. Rain fell over the vineyards, washing the dust from the grapes. But inside the villa, the air still smelled of old wounds and fresh smoke. Dante’s breath caught for half a second. Not pity. Recognition. Memory. His father’s belt. His mother’s screaming. The cold cellar

He remembered the weight of betrayal crashing down you. The only one he ever trusted pulling the trigger. He hated the fact that it wasn’t anger that welled up first. It was something bitter and tangled, like acid burning through his chest. A cold disbelief that you could do what no one else dared—take his father away. The man whose cruelty had shaped him into the monster he was, yet whose shadow still haunted every step he took. He took a drag from the cigarette, exhaling smoke and silence

“We all had something. Doesn't mean we get to keep it.”