Dante’s POVThe city had always spoken to me in a language of whispers and blood. Tonight, it screamed.I stood alone in the glass tower’s upper room, the skyline fractured by rain on the windows. The penthouse was too quiet now, too clean—like a place waiting for its ghosts to return. But I wasn’t here for sentiment.The flash drive Matteo left behind sat in the center of my desk. Open. Deconstructed. Every file cracked and mirrored twice to different offsite servers. I hadn’t slept in nearly two days, not because I was afraid of what was on it—but because I wasn’t.Matteo wanted me to see it.He wanted me to remember what I did to Mira’s brother. The betrayal. The order I gave. The reasons I had… and the ones I didn’t. He wanted to light a fuse in the center of everything I’d rebuilt.He should’ve known better.My phone buzzed.“He’s confirmed at the Blackstone warehouse. Quiet. Watching. Just like you said.” – VicoGood.Matteo was testing the perimeters. Watching the outer rings
Dante’s POVThe hard drive whirred like a distant whisper, a low, insistent voice bleeding secrets into the room. I sat alone at the end of the long table in my private study, lights dimmed, shadows pressing in from all corners. A tumbler of untouched whiskey sat at my elbow. The screen before me flickered to life, and with it, ghosts began to rise.The first file was dated nine years ago. Surveillance footage. Audio logs. Transcripts. Names I hadn’t heard in years. Faces I thought buried.Matteo Santoro’s digital resurrection wasn’t just a return—it was a reckoning.He had cataloged everything. Meetings I’d forgotten. Kill orders I never expected anyone to trace. Even some of the Ember Pact betrayals that had been handled in absolute silence. And then, buried deep beneath layers of encrypted data, was the real dagger:A video recording from the penthouse.The timestamp put it just days before Mira’s brother—Marco—was found dead.The footage was grainy but unmistakable. Marco, chained
Dante’s POVI’ve always believed in two truths:1.Information is power.2.Control is survival.And tonight, both were slipping through my hands like ash.Matteo’s drive had changed everything. I wasn’t just fighting ghosts anymore—I was fighting timelines. Exposures. People. Luca. Mira. The Bureau. And possibly factions I hadn’t even identified yet.But it didn’t matter.I didn’t build my empire on mercy or reaction.I built it on preemption.And now it was time to preempt.I stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling screens in my private command room—no windows, no echoes, just silence and digital breath. The walls shimmered with strings of code and surveillance feeds. Vico stood beside me, arms crossed, already anticipating the next war.“Give me every system Matteo accessed in the last six months.”Vico nodded. “Cross-indexed with file movement, data pulls, any duplicate drives. If he left a breadcrumb trail, we’ll find it.”“Good,” I said. “Because we’re going to burn it.”He rai
Dante’s POVThe drive was smaller than a cigarette lighter. Nondescript. Matte black. The kind of thing most people would overlook.But I knew better.Vico had handed it to me without a word, his gloves still wet with Matteo’s blood. I hadn’t spoken since. Not during the extraction. Not during the silent ride up the service elevator into the penthouse. The only sound now was the soft hum of the decryption program working its way through layers of encryption Matteo clearly hadn’t set himself.The Bureau had touched this. Maybe others too. There were too many fingerprints.The screen flickered. The progress bar reached 100%. A soft chime.Unlocked.And just like that, everything changed.Lines of data exploded across the screen—case numbers, alias files, surveillance logs. The Bureau had compiled more than just background on me. This was an active case. Codenamed Black Echo.There were photos—some grainy, some with chilling clarity.Luca.Mira.My men.My penthouse.A map of the city wi
Dante’s POVThe room was silent but alive—humming with tension and the quiet efficiency of men who had killed before and would kill again.My gloves were already on, black leather tight against my skin. Across the table, the schematics of the abandoned dockyard flickered on the tablet screen, blue light cutting sharp angles across my face. The team stood around me—Vico, Marcello, and Angelo—all men I trusted to follow orders without hesitation, especially when the orders came wrapped in blood.No one said Matteo Santoro’s name. Not out loud. Not here.But it was there—heavy between every breath, behind every command I gave.“Entry point is southwest access,” I said, tapping the tablet. “He’s using the lower-level storage area beneath the cranes—old maintenance tunnels under Dock 7. Heat scan confirms at least three bodies inside. One is him.”Angelo’s brow furrowed. “He’s expecting a move?”“He’s always expected it,” I said coldly. “We gave him five years of silence. He should’ve stay
Dante’s POVThe first sign came in silence.Not a noise. Not a shot.But the absence of something that should’ve been there.One of the penthouse’s outer surveillance nodes—camera 8B, facing the north rooftop—blinked offline at 3:14 a.m. That alone wouldn’t have rattled most. But for Dante Moretti, every system was a vein in his body. When one went dark, he felt it like a skipped heartbeat.He didn’t say a word. Just rose from his desk, walked to the control monitor, and rewound the feed.What he found wasn’t a glitch.It was a shadow. Tall. Lean. Confident.And gone in under four seconds.No face. No trace. Just a motion too deliberate to be random. A ghost brushing the edge of his world.He rewound it again. Slowed it. Enhanced it.The figure turned briefly—only for a breath—but it was enough.The gait. The tilt of the head. The slight delay in the left step, like a man who had once walked with a bullet lodged in his femur.Dante’s jaw clenched.Matteo Santoro.Dead men weren’t supp