Dante stopped in the center of the room, his shadow falling long across the Persian rug. The urge to lunge forward, to wrap his hands around the old man's throat, was a physical ache, but he reined it in, for now. "Cut the bullshit, Nikolai. Alessia doesn't want a damn thing to do with you anymore. She's got her freedom now, away from your strings. And you know exactly why I'm here. Your little puppet, Alexei Ivanov, tell him to release her. Or I'll keep destroying everything he has, every connection, every scrap of his so-called empire. I'm already halfway there, as you can see." He nodded toward the TV, where footage looped of flames devouring crates, firefighters battling an inferno that symbolized Dante's unrelenting fury.Nikolai chuckled, a dry, wheezing sound that grated like sandpaper. He set his glass down on a side table with a clink, finally meeting Dante's gaze. His eyes were cold, calculating orbs set in a face weathered by decades of ruthless deals, wrinkles lik
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