Dante made a sound—a choked, guttural noise, as if he’d been punched in the soul. His face, a mask of arrogant control just moments before, contorted with a horror so pure, so absolute, it was almost beautiful. He wasn't looking at a rival or a ghost. He was looking at a receipt for a debt he never thought he’d have to pay, written in scarred flesh.
The men at the table were silent, their personal vendettas momentarily forgotten, replaced by a stunned, morbid curiosity. They were predators, but even they seemed to recognize they were witnessing a different kind of execution.
I said nothing. I simply held the mask in my hand and let the raw, unvarnished truth of my face be his answer. I let him stare at the jagged, puckered line where my eyebrow used to be, at the pale, dead landscape of
