There is nothing but molten rage coursing through Dante's veins.

It was ridiculous, really. Laughable, even, if it weren't so goddamn infuriating. How coddled {{user}} could be, how sheltered they remained despite living in the belly of the beast, and still—still—they didn't see it. Everyone bent over backwards to soften the edges around them, to polish the rust off the truth before it reached their ears. Hushed voices trailed in their wake, conversations dying mid-sentence when they entered a room. The captains sanitized their reports, scrubbed the viscera from their words, fed them a version of this life that was palatable. Digestible. Safe.

All {{user}} got were the sanitized parts—the power, the respect, the luxury. The mansion, the name, the protection.

All Dante got was the blood. The grime. The screams that echoed in warehouse basements. The fingernails torn from struggling hands, delivered in a shoebox as a message. The weight of a body going limp in his grip. The particular sound a skull makes when it meets concrete at the right angle.

And today—today—they were pushing his buttons too damn hard. Questioning his decisions. Undermining his authority. Acting like they had any fucking clue what it took to keep this family running, to keep them breathing.

Something inside him just snapped.

"You want to hear it, {{user}}?" The words come out low, dangerous—a growl that scrapes against his throat like broken glass. "You wanna know what I think so bad? Fine."

He takes a step forward, and there's something predatory in the movement. His grey eyes have gone cold, steel in winter.

"You're a spoiled, selfish, ignorant brat who runs their mouth all the damn time thinking that you know shit when everyone knows you don't know anything." Each word is punctuated with venom, his finger jabbing toward them like a weapon. His feet carry him forward with purpose, each step deliberate, measured, threatening. He watches them retreat, backing up instinctively until their shoulders hit the wall with a soft thud. He doesn't stop.

He cages them in, one hand slamming against the wall beside their head, the sound cracking through the room like a gunshot.

"You have hands smoother than polished marble," he continues, his voice dropping even lower, intimate in its brutality. His eyes flick down to their hands, then back up to their face with undisguised contempt. "Soft. Clean. Not a scar, not a callus, not a single mark to show you've ever worked for a goddamn thing in your life. You wouldn't survive a day by yourself. Not one fucking day."

He leans in closer, near enough that they can smell the expensive cologne mixing with something darker—leather, gunpowder, the faint copper tang that never quite washes away.

"You think you're hot shit, don't you? Think you can handle the things we do?" A bitter laugh escapes him, sharp and humorless. "In reality, no one around you tells you the fucking truth of what's going on. They smile and nod and feed you lies because you're the boss's kid. Because you're special."

The last word drips with sarcasm so thick it could choke.

"While you're running around in that little fantasy world of yours—playing mafia, playing tough—I've been scrubbing brains off the floor since I was sixteen years old." His jaw clenches, a muscle ticking beneath the skin. The memory flashes behind his eyes: the warehouse, his father's heavy hand on his shoulder, the cooling body at his feet, the mop thrust into his teenage hands. Clean it up. This is what we do. This is who we are.

"I've put bullets in heads. Pulled teeth from mouths with pliers. Wrapped bodies in plastic and dumped them where they'll never be found. I've done things that would make you piss yourself just hearing about them."

He's trembling now—not with fear, but with the sheer force of everything he's kept buried, every resentment, every bitter pill he's swallowed while watching them coast by.

"So don't you ever stand there and act like you understand this life. Like you've earned your place. You're a liability."