Semua Bab A Contract With The Devil in a Suit: Bab 41 - Bab 50

Spring in Brooklyn was supposed to feel like a beginning, but for Dante, every breeze carrying the scent of cherry blossoms still seemed laced with the lingering trace of sandalwood that once surrounded him. He sat at a pinewood table he had recently bought—a simple piece, free of the intricate carvings that usually adorned Leonard’s furniture. In front of him, a laptop lay open, displaying the draft of a novel he was rebuilding from nothing.He was trying to write about freedom, yet his fingers often hovered above the keyboard, frozen. He realized he could describe golden chains and marble walls with painful precision, but he still struggled to capture the feeling of unconditional peace.A knock on his apartment door broke his thoughts. He no longer flinched at sudden sounds, but his hand instinctively reached for the pocket watch in his coat—a quiet anchor to reality.“Dante, there’s a delivery. Not from the prison,” Marco said as he entered, carrying a rectangular package wrapped i

Spring in Brooklyn was supposed to carry the scent of freedom, but for Dante Adrian, the morning air felt heavy and still. At his modest dining table, his father’s manuscript—now published and quietly successful—lay neatly arranged. Yet the achievement felt distant, as if he were watching someone else’s life from behind thick glass.Dante sipped his coffee, his fingers brushing the surface of the silver pocket watch that never left his side. Its steady ticking was the only thing grounding him in reality, assuring him he was not trapped inside the labyrinth of Leonard Virelli’s nightmares.“You’re drifting again,” Marco’s voice broke the silence.Marco stood near the window, his eyes scanning the street below. Even though they were no longer under the Virelli banner, his protective instincts had not faded. He wore a gray polo shirt, but the outline of the weapon at his waist was unmistakable to a trained eye.“Just thinking about the next chapter of my new novel, Marco,” Dante said qui

The sharp scent of floor disinfectant and the rhythmic beeping of vital sign monitors formed a suffocating background for Dante. He sat in the corridor outside the ICU, his head resting against the cold concrete wall. His expensive suit was now wrinkled, stained with Marco’s blood and dried rain. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the flash of headlights from the black sedan and felt the violent impact that had nearly taken the life of the only person he trusted.“Mr. Adrian.”Dante looked up. Detective Miller stood before him, still holding his small notebook, his expression worn with the fatigue of a city steeped in crime. Behind him stood a well-dressed man with a federal badge clipped to his belt.“Detective,” Dante greeted shortly. “Marco’s still unconscious. If you’re here for his statement, you’re wasting your time.”“I’m not here for him, Dante,” Miller said, sitting beside him while the federal agent remained standing, observing Dante like a specimen under glass. “This is

The icy rain of Zurich felt like needles against Dante’s skin as he ducked into a narrow alleyway behind the Bahnhofstrasse. His lungs burned, each breath a sharp reminder of the violence he had just committed in the bowels of the bank. In his satchel, the titanium case clattered—a heavy, silent witness to the ghost of Leonard Virelli.He didn't head for the main station. The Surya Group would have the terminals crawling with "cleaners" within minutes. Instead, he navigated the winding, cobblestone streets of the Altstadt, his mind operating on a cold, tactical frequency he thought he had buried in Brooklyn. He needed a ghost—not the one in Alaska, but a living one.Dante reached a weathered oak door tucked between a watchmaker’s shop and a chocolatier. He knocked a rhythmic sequence: three slow, two fast.The door creaked open to reveal a woman with silver hair cropped close to her scalp and eyes as hard as Alpine granite. This was Elena, a former "logistics specialist" for the Virel

The funicular descended into the abyssal maw of the Lauterbrunnen Valley with a mechanical, rhythmic hum that felt like a funeral dirge. Behind them, high atop the jagged peaks, the villa was a dying star. The secondary explosions sent tremors through the mountain, muffled by the thick winter air, until the once-proud stone fortress was nothing more than a jagged silhouette against a pillar of fire.Dante sat on the floor of the small cable car, his back pressed against the vibrating metal wall. Marco lay beside him, his breathing shallow but stable, his head resting on a bunched-up tactical jacket. Dante’s hands were stained with a mixture of Leonard’s blood and the soot of the medical wing. He looked down at his palms, the tremors finally catching up to him.The debt was paid. The words echoed in his mind, louder than the wind whistling through the funicular’s cables. Leonard was gone. The man who had been his god, his jailer, and his twisted father figure had chosen a Viking funera