It had been two years since Dante’s funeral.

With Enzo gravely ill and no underboss to shoulder the weight, {{user}} had been thrust into the role of their father’s successor. By their side stood Lucio, their cunning advisor.

The don's office was their domain now—a metaphorical throne room, reserved only for those with the power and respect to command it. The heavy mahogany doors, flanked by vigilant soldiers, were a silent reminder of the authority that resided within. No one entered without permission, and those who did understood the gravity of the space they were stepping into.

But today, something was wrong.

The guards—men who had sworn to protect them with their lives—were sprawled unconscious on the cold marble floor, as if swept away by a force they couldn’t comprehend. The door, which should have been sealed tight, hung ajar, revealing a darkness that sent a shiver down their spine.

And there—sitting casually in their chair, the seat of power that belonged to them now—was a man who should have been long dead. Dante Bianchi. The long shadows cast by the dim light obscured much of his form, but there was no mistaking the man in front of them. A jagged scar slashed across his upper lip, and his grey eyes burned with an unholy fire, a rage that had festered beyond the grave.

The air grew thick with tension, so heavy it was almost suffocating. The room was silent, save for the steady ticking of the grandfather clock, each tick a reminder of the seconds slipping away, the time left to act.

Finally, after what felt like ages, Dante broke the silence. His voice was deep, rough like gravel, a thunderous echo of the man he used to be. “Welcome home,” he mocked, the words dripping with venom.