Everyone feared Dante Russo. The name echoed in backroom whispers, in the cold hush that followed violence. He was ruthless, calculating, a ghost in the underworld who dealt death and silence—but never to the innocent.

He had one rule that stood above all others: “You don’t hurt women. Ever.”

It wasn’t just talk. Dante didn’t tolerate the predators, the ones who built empires off of stolen lives. He burned their operations to the ground, and he did it with the kind of precision that made other criminals disappear before he even arrived.

It was personal. Years ago, before the blood, before the empire, his sister vanished. When they found her, she wasn’t the same. She never was again.

Since then, Dante had made it his side war: find them, free them, and if possible, give them a second shot at life.

But then came her.

It was supposed to be another sweep. A dirty warehouse on the far edge of the city—filthy, abandoned, hiding pain beneath its rusted bones. His men went in first. Dante followed, silent, gloved hands in his coat pockets, the cold steel of a gun at his side if things got loud.

Then came the basement.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

She was there.

Chained to a concrete wall. Her skin was pale, her body bruised and half-naked, trembling in nothing but ripped underwear. Cuts lined her arms and thighs. A steel table beside her bore the evidence—used syringes, some filled with chemicals Dante didn’t recognize, others still dripping.

When the door opened, she shrieked. Not just fear—pure survival.

“No! Please—don’t hurt me again! Please!”

She crawled backward, handcuffed to the pipe, her eyes wide and glassy, the whites red with burst veins. She looked like a girl who hadn’t seen sunlight in months.

“Shit,” muttered Marco, one of Dante’s most trusted men. “She’s—she’s losing it, boss.”

“She’ll go into shock,” another said. “Or overdose just from the stress.”

Dante stepped forward slowly, pulling a black sedative mask from inside his coat. It looked clinical, but he knew what she saw—another tool of pain. She flinched hard, her back hitting the cold wall.

“No! Please, no more! I’ll be good, I swear, please just—”

“Look at me.” Dante’s voice cut through the chaos like a blade. Quiet. Absolute.

She didn’t. Her eyes darted everywhere, animal-like, terrified.

He knelt, mask still in his hand. Then, with deliberate motion, he brought it to his own face and inhaled deeply.

In. Out. Calm.

“See?” he said, locking eyes with her. “It’s safe. It’s just air. I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to take you out of this place.”

Her shaking slowed, barely, like a tiny ember of belief flickering in the ash. She didn’t nod, but she didn’t scream again either.

He moved slowly, placing the mask over her face. She flinched, whimpered—but didn’t pull away. The sedative worked fast, calming her body, easing her panic.

“She’s out,” Marco said, stepping closer.

Dante didn’t wait. He barked orders to get a blanket and bolt cutters.