CHAPTER 1

Eric stepped into the dimly lit basement, his all-black outfit blending seamlessly with the shadows. His sharp features betrayed no emotion as he delivered the news.

“My lord. He is in the dungeon,” Eric said, his voice steady and clear.

Across the room sat Dante. The Alpha and Mighty. The most feared man in Sicily. His title alone made people tremble, but it was his presence that commanded complete submission. Dante said nothing at first. His dark hair was swept back, exposing his cold, sharp features. His hooded eyes were fixed on the wall, distant yet sharp, as memories from his perfect recall played in his mind.

His sharp-angle brows furrowed slightly as he looked down at the glass in his hand. The drink offered little comfort, but it was a habit, one that steadied him in moments of quiet rage.

Without speaking, Dante stood. His decision was final. The man in the dungeon had forged documents to climb the ranks of his organization, a betrayal that deserved no mercy.

“Do you have to kill him?” Eric asked softly, breaking the silence.

Dante turned slowly and fixed Eric with a glare so cold it could have frozen the air. His jaw tightened, and his voice cut through the room like a blade.

“You do not tell me what to do,” Dante growled.

Eric immediately lowered his gaze. “Forgive me,” he said, bowing.

The air felt heavy, charged with Dante’s unspoken anger. Without another word, Dante brushed past Eric, his footsteps echoing with purpose as he headed toward the dungeon.

The dungeon was as merciless as its master. Its damp walls carried the scent of fear, blood, and despair. It was a place where even the bravest men lost hope. The traitor sat tied to a chair in the center of the room. His face was swollen and bloody, his body trembling from pain and terror.

When Dante entered, the traitor’s head snapped up. His eyes widened, and he froze. Dante’s dark gaze was colder than the air in the dungeon. A faint smirk touched his lips, one that promised pain. The traitor shivered, the fear in his eyes more vivid than his injuries.

Dante said nothing as he pulled a knife from his belt. The blade gleamed under the dim light. Each step he took was deliberate, and with every step, the traitor’s breathing grew faster.

“Forgive me,” the traitor begged. His voice shook, his words spilling out in panic. “Please, my lord. I didn’t mean—”

“Forgive?” Dante repeated, his voice low and dangerous. He chuckled, a cold, humorless sound. His sharp eyes focused on the knife in his hand.

“I swear I’ll make this right. Please—”

“Silence,” Dante snapped. He stepped closer, towering over the traitor. The traitor flinched as the tip of the knife pressed against his throat. Dante tilted his head slightly, watching the man tremble beneath him.

“Plead,” Dante commanded.

“Please,” the traitor whispered, tears streaking his bloody face.

Dante dragged the blade slowly across the man’s throat, not enough to cut but enough to send waves of terror through him. The traitor sobbed, his body shaking violently.

“You think you deserve mercy?” Dante asked. His voice was calm, but his eyes burned with cold fury.

The knife moved suddenly, slicing into the man’s skin. The traitor gasped, his body jerking as pain shot through him. His wide eyes locked on Dante, filled with horror and disbelief.

Dante’s smirk faded. His movements were slow, precise, and merciless. The blade cut deeper, ripping into flesh with every deliberate motion. The traitor’s muffled cries filled the room, each sound a twisted melody to Dante’s ears.

Dante leaned closer, watching the light drain from the man’s eyes. The satisfaction on his face was undeniable. His rage found its release in the act, but it was a controlled rage, one that made his dominance absolute.

When it was over, Dante stepped back. Blood dripped from the knife in his hand. He looked at the lifeless body slumped in the chair, then dropped the blade to the floor. The clang echoed in the silence.

Dante straightened his jacket and turned to leave. He walked out of the dungeon without a glance back, his steps steady and unhurried. Behind him, the dungeon returned to silence, a tomb for the traitor and a testament to Dante’s unyielding power.

Dante leaned against the wall in his room, his breathing uneven. Despite the rush of power, a deeper anguish clawed at him. His father’s death haunted him, a wound time refused to heal.

“Why?” he muttered, his voice barely audible. “Why is this so difficult? Why is it so difficult to find the killer and reduce him to nothing? Why?”

He clenched his fists, frustration coursing through him. Bringing criminals to their knees was second nature, but finding his father’s killer? That was a battle he couldn’t seem to win. His vision blurred with rage as a dark craving consumed him: the vision of his father’s murderer, begging for mercy, enduring endless torment under his hand.

With a deep breath, Dante pushed away from the wall and headed for his wardrobe. He selected a black two-button Tom Ford suit that emphasized his broad shoulders. A crisp white Armani shirt and a patterned silk tie from Hermès completed the look.

On his feet, he wore handcrafted black Gucci shoes, made exclusively for him. Adjusting his tie, he took a final glance in the mirror. Confidence radiated from him now, every detail a testament to his power and precision.

By the time he stepped into his Mercedes-Benz GLK, his driver and bodyguards stood ready, awaiting instructions. The air of authority that Dante exuded was unshakable, and as the car’s luxurious interior enveloped him, he prepared for his 4 p.m. meeting.

The drive, however, tested his patience. Traffic crawled at a maddening pace, each passing minute a reminder of his disdain for inefficiency. His tie loosened, and Dante hissed under his breath, his composure unraveling. The driver and bodyguards exchanged wary glances. They knew what that meant: “No one keeps Dante waiting indefinitely.

As he drummed his fingers on his lap, Dante’s attention was drawn to the sidewalk. A makeshift medical station had been set up, surrounded by elderly women. Among them stood an angel in white coat.

She moved with grace, her long raven hair cascading over her shoulders as she tended to people with a big bright smile.

Dr. Sophia Antonio, with her bright smile and compassionate eyes, was a vision of purity amidst the chaos.

Dante’s dark gaze lingered on her. The frustrations of traffic faded as he watched her attend to an elderly woman. Her slender hand adorned with a simple silver watch, moved with precision. He imagined those fingers tracing his jawline, sending shivers down his spine.

Her sparkling blue eyes radiated warmth, captivating him in a way he hadn’t thought possible. In his mind, he saw those eyes locked onto his, not with compassion, but desire. He pictured her full lips brushing against his skin, igniting fires he hadn’t felt in years. Her loose waves framed her face, and Dante imagined tangling his fingers in them, pulling her close and having her roughly from behind.

Marco, one of his bodyguards, hesitated before speaking. “Sir, shall we—”

Dante silenced him with a raised finger, his focus unbroken. For the first time in years, a spark of humanity flickered within his cold, calculated heart.

Sophia’s dedication and empathy stirred something foreign within him. The ruthless mafia lord found himself craving more than just control—he yearned to know her, to possess her, to own her, and to keep her.

As the world outside the car dissolved into background noise, Dante’s determination solidified. Sophia Antonio had captivated him and he wasn’t a man accustomed to wanting without taking.

He would have her, and he would own her. Crazy? Yes, that is exactly who is he. A crazy mafia lord who took possession of everything that he desired.