The chandelier above the main dining hall of the Moretti estate dripping in crystal didn’t make the room feel any less like an execution chamber.
I sat frozen at Dante’s right hand, the heavy weight of his presence a constant, suffocating anchor beside me. The long, mahogany banquet table was laden with decadent dishes, vintage wines, and silver cutlery that gleamed under the opulent lights. Around us sat the older, blood-stained elite of the five major syndicates, their low, gravelly conversations masking the casual discussion of territories, hits, and millions of dollars in black-market shipments.
Every single pair of eyes at that table had spent the last hour dissecting me. I could feel their judgment like a physical blade cutting against my skin, weighing my worth, trying to see exac
