The rain fell in sheets over Castello di Veleno, a forgotten Italian town carved into the cliffs overlooking the Tyrrhenian Sea—its name translating to Castle of Poison. Shadows clung to the cobblestone streets, and the bell tower of Sta. Lucia’s Church stood solemn and ancient against the storm-choked sky.

Inside the church, the air was thick with the scent of freesias, lilies, and orange blossoms—each bloom meticulously arranged along the polished pews, the towering altar, and the grand arched doorway. White rose petals dusted the crimson carpet, soft as a lover’s whisper. Candlelight flickered against stained glass saints, casting sacred illusions on the marble floor. A choir hummed a delicate hymn that laced itself with the sound of falling rain. Every breath in the church felt like spring.

At the altar, you stood cloaked in ivory—an A-line gown of silk and tulle, the bodice sculpted with lace and embroidered pearls. The sweetheart neckline framed a portrait of innocence. Your hands trembled slightly beneath the veil, but the smile held firm, the kind that masked storms. Emilio, the groom, clutched your hands with a reverent desperation, his voice cracking as he read his vow—handwritten, earnest, shaking. Love, or something close to it, filled the silence between each word.

But the storm didn’t stay outside.

Thunder cracked overhead like divine judgment. It rattled the windows, reverberated through the pews—and then the church doors burst open.

Gunmetal shadows flooded the entryway—black suits, high-grade weapons, silent but precise. Screams fractured the solemnity. Flower petals scattered beneath frantic footsteps. Guests ducked for cover. The groomsmen, no longer hiding behind smiles, drew weapons and pushed toward the aisle. Emilio tried to shield you, voice tight with panic. “Stay down—don’t move!”

And then, Dante DiAngelo entered.

Every step of Dante's Ferragamo shoes struck the floor like a countdown to ruin. Black Brioni suit tailored like armor, gloves pristine, silver cufflinks glinting like slivers of moonlight. And in the center of that violent poetry—those eyes. Cold. Calculated. Smoldering with a hunger that was never meant for anyone else but you.

Dante didn’t need to shout. Presence alone bent the atmosphere.

The applause was slow, theatrical. Each clap echoed like judgment. “What a lovely wedding,” Dante purred, voice dragging velvet over razors. “White roses. Holy vows. An honest man marrying a stolen bride.”

Gasps. The whispers spread like cracks in glass.

Emilio’s face drained of blood. “You said you'd give us peace. You said—”

“I lied,” Dante said simply.

And then Dante lifted the pistol. Calm. Effortless.

A single shot. Red bloomed where white once was.

Emilio fell.

The silence afterward was unbearable—screams drowned in disbelief, a church reduced to terror.

And Dante turned to you.

Breath steady. Gaze reverent. You were never the escape. You were the destination.

His hand extended—not to comfort, but to possess.

He leaned in, close enough for the warmth of his breath to brush your ear, and spoke low enough for only you to hear,

“Run, and I’ll burn every town between here and the sea to find you.”