CHAPTER 3

Dante sat alone in the dimly lit basement, the faint hum of an overhead bulb casting a yellowish glow over the cluttered space.

His fingers moved methodically over the Rubik’s Cube, twisting and turning the vibrant squares in a ritual he had perfected long ago—a mental escape from the chaos that usually consumed his life. But tonight, even the familiar click of the cube couldn’t silence the storm raging within him.

He was on the brink of a confrontation he had fantasized about for years, a meeting with his sworn enemy—the man whose mere existence fueled his darkest impulses.

The thought of that face, so smug and unrepentant, ignited a searing rage in his chest.

Dante pictured the moment with perfect clarity: his enemy kneeling before him, broken and begging for mercy before he delivered the final blow. Yet, he knew the timing wasn’t right. Not yet. Every move in his world had to be calculated, every piece on the board perfectly placed. For now, he had to wait, no matter how badly his blood boiled for vengeance. He needed to be certain. There are two men involved and even though all the evidence was pointing at Miguel he needed to be certain.

Dante’s thoughts shattered as footsteps echoed on the basement stairs. He didn’t need to look up to know who it was—Eric, his family’s most trusted ally his father’s assistant, and now his, stood at the bottom stairs his broad frame silhouetted against the faint light from above.

“It’s time,” Eric said, his voice steady but tense.

Together, they climbed the stairs and stepped into the crisp night air, the faint tang of salt from the nearby ocean filling Dante’s nostrils. The black SUV waited at the curb, its engine idling like a predator ready to strike. Eric held the door open as Dante slid into the back seat, his mind sharpening into the ruthless clarity he was known for.

The drive to the docks was silent, the tension in the vehicle almost suffocating. The darkened streets blurred past the tinted windows, and with each passing second, Dante’s pulse steadied. This wasn’t just a meeting—it was the first move in a game that could end with him either victorious or dead.

As the SUV pulled up to the desolate waterfront, the eerie glow of industrial floodlights cast long shadows over the empty cargo crates and rusted equipment.

Dante stepped out, the distant sound of waves crashing against the pier underscoring the gravity of the moment. Ahead, he saw the figures of men gathered near a shipping container, one of them unmistakable—the enemy he had been waiting for, Miguel, His father’s presumed killer.

Miguel was already there, standing with a posture that exuded confidence. He leaned casually against a shipping container, a cigarette burning between his fingers. His smirk was visible even from a distance.

Dante’s jaw tightened as he stepped out of the car, his boots crunching on the gravel-strewn ground. Eric trailed behind him, his eyes scanning for any signs of a trap.

Dante walked toward Miguel with measured steps, his expression a mask of cold detachment that concealed the fury roiling beneath.

Miguel took a long drag of his cigarette before flicking it to the ground, crushing it under his polished shoe. It’s been long he last saw Dante, but successful news about him flew across cities. He has indeed grown into a man to be feared.

“Dante,” he called, “The last time I saw you, you were just a kid—wide-eyed and quiet—standing behind your father at one of our meetings. It's good to see you, all grown.”

Dante’s fists clenched at his sides, the mention of his father striking a nerve that ran deeper than Miguel could imagine. But he didn’t flinch, Instead, he kept his expression cold and unreadable.

“Glad you remembered,” Dante replied, his tone deceptively calm, though his eyes burned with restrained fury. “You were there, weren’t you? Front and center, pretending loyalty while plotting betrayal and snitching around.

Miguel adjusted the cuffs of his tailored jacket, straightening his posture as if to remind Dante of his seasoned experience.

Engaging in a war of words with an enraged young man wasn’t why he had come, and he wasn’t about to let Dante get provoked.

“Why did you request a meet-up?” Dante asked, his voice sharp and demanding, cutting through the heavy silence like a blade.

“I only came to propose a business deal,” Miguel said, his voice steady, with the faintest edge of calculation. Something that keeps you at the top, where you belong, while it brings me to the top as well. It’s mutually beneficial, Dante. You’re smart enough to see that.

Dante’s eyes narrowed and he scoffed, almost invisibly.

“Why do you think I would ever do business with a traitor like you?” Dante asked his voice sharp and cutting, each word laced with disdain. His piercing gaze locked onto Miguel’s, daring him to respond. He had not done anything to Dante he didn't deserve to be called a traitor.

Miguel opened his mouth, ready to deliver a smooth retort, but before he could speak, the tension in the air shifted as the sound of hurried footsteps approached from behind. One of Dante’s men emerged from the shadows, his face tense, his breathing quick. He didn’t hesitate, going straight to Dante, bowing his head slightly as he greeted him in Italian.

“Buonasera, capo,” the man began respectfully, then quickly got to the point, his voice urgent but controlled.

“Boss, someone just tried to hijack the shipment at the north warehouse. We caught one of them. Before we silenced him, he talked—he mentioned who sent him.”

Dante’s sharp gaze burned into the man, his patience unraveling in an instant. His voice boomed across the docks, cutting through the thick night air.

“Chi lo ha mandato?” he demanded in Italian, his tone deadly. “(Who sent him? ) The man hesitated for a brief moment, as though bracing himself for the storm his next words would unleash. He pointed to Miguel. “Him.” the man said grimly, his eyes darting toward the man in question.

Dante froze, the air around him growing impossibly still, yet the fire in his eyes burned hotter with every second. His jaw clenched as he slowly turned to face Miguel, his glare searing. For a heartbeat, no one moved, the tension so thick it was suffocating.

“I knew it,” Dante growled, his voice low and venomous. “I knew it, I knew you were up to no good.

With a swift motion, Dante drew his gun and aimed it at Miguel—an uncalculated move. His finger tightened around the trigger, and a split second later, the sound of gunfire shattered the night air.

Miguel retaliated, pulling the trigger and landing a bullet in Dante's arm, but Eric was quick to fire a shot at Miguel as well.

The sound of gunfire echoed through the docks as Dante's men surged forward, ready to attack.

But Dante raised his hands, silencing them with a stern gesture. Miguel, anticipating a fight, signaled his own men to stand down.

The two groups froze, their eyes locked in a tense standoff. Dante's gaze burned with rage as he glared at Miguel, his voice low and menacing.

"The battle lines have just been drawn," Dante growled, his words dripping with venom.

The air was heavy with tension, the silence between them thick with anticipation. It was clear that this was only the beginning of a brutal and ruthless conflict.