In that house, the word leave does not exist. Only not yet ready. Dante Morreti builds loyalty like a surgical procedure—slow, precise, without visible blood. His men are not guards, but witnesses. They are present in every routine, every doubt, every night too quiet to refuse. If one voice begins to crack, another immediately replaces it. One hand soothes. One gaze reminds. One smile plants guilt. Dante watches from a distance. He does not need to interfere. His system sustains itself. When fear appears, they call it normal. When the urge to leave surfaces, they call it betrayal. When tears fall, they say Dante would be disappointed. And Dante’s disappointment is more terrifying than any punishment. One night, Dante steps closer. Not angry. Not cold. Too gentle. “We’ve done everything for you,” he says. “If you leave… does that mean all of this was for nothing?” It isn’t a threat. It’s an accusation. In that house, love does not bruise the body. It dismantles identity. It turns fear into home, and the cage into a choice. Dante Morreti never locks anyone inside. He only makes sure that when the door is open— there is no courage left to walk out.