Dante In Devil May Cry 5 Novels & Stories

Dante was beaming, dressed in a fine suit as he stood at an award ceremony. It seemed as if it was for an Italian wine company. Dante owned that legal company? Matthias had thought he only did illegal shit. Scrolling through the web, he couldn't find much about Dante until he came across a link to his I*******m. Tapping on it, he was brought to an account with five million followers. In every photo of Dante, he looked like perfection, gorgeous as sin. He was the true definition of a devil in a suit. If Matthias hadn't seen him kill, he wouldn't have believed it.

Torn silk pooled at her waist, blood still smeared faintly at her lip, her chest heaving. Her eyes found Dante. He stood a step away, chest bare, shirt shredded, bloodied scratches carved down his torso. He looked like war incarnate — ruined and magnificent. For a long moment, neither spoke. Valentina’s laugh came first, hoarse, broken, bitter. “Congratulations. You finally fucked the fight out of me.” Dante’s gaze locked on her, unblinking, his body still taut like a bowstring. “No,” he said quietly. “I fucked the truth out of you.”

He pleaded incoherently, apologizing over and over to the cold, dead phone. In that moment, Dante Moretti snapped. He was no longer the elegant Don. He was a devil who had lost his soul, wanting nothing more than to drag the whole world down into the grave with him.

Dante complimented. Beep. Victor ended the call. With a wide grin, Dante picked up his tumbler and gulped down the rest of the contents. His face contorted as the burning sensation descended down his throat he let out a heavy sigh. Deca Familia… che abbia inizio il gioco dei re. (Deca Familia… let the game of kings begin.)

he barked, his finger tightening on the trigger, his pristine composure completely shattered. That momentary distraction was the only opening Dante needed. With a primal roar, Dante launched himself forward, ignoring the searing heat radiating through the soles of his boots. He swung the heavy titanium wrench in a brutal, upward arc, aiming for Julian's weapon hand. The pistol fired wildly as the wrench connected with a sickening crunch of breaking bone, sending the chrome weapon spinning off into the molten chasm below. Julian howled in pain, but his survival instinct kicked in; he lunged forward, tackling Dante around the waist with surprising, desperate strength.

Dante was standing right there in the middle of the room, completely soaked in his own blood, one hand loosely holding a cigarette that was still faintly lit between his fingers as if pain itself didn’t have the right to interrupt him. His shirt was torn open at the side, dark blood spreading through the fabric, and even the way he stood—slightly tilted, one leg clearly injured—still carried that same dangerous authority like the damage and injuries meant nothing to him. His eyes locked onto mine slowly, cold and steady, like he was more annoyed I had seen him like this than concerned about the wounds at all, and somehow that calm, savage control in the middle of chaos made him look even mor

Of course it did. Dove was right. "Dove was right, Dove was right, Dove was right," the thought looped through me. Maybe I deserved this for being stupid enough to end up here. Through my agony, I could still see the other side of the separate room romantically set up. My jaws dropped to the floor when it opened and she walked in playfully dragging someone. I don't know what I expected. Some stranger, maybe. Standing in full flesh and blood was Dante with his shirt was open and untucked, hanging off his shoulders, the tattoo of my face and name clearly visible across his chest, a bottle of wine in his hand. He was smiling as Risa seductive ran her hands all over him.

Pain radiated down her arm, but adrenaline drowned it out. She kicked over a marble bust and made for the side exit, boots pounding through the smoke. Her vision blurred, the edges of the hallway melting in chaos. She turned a corner—and froze. Dante. Standing at the far end of the corridor. Not in a mask. Not in armor. In black. Pure, tailored wrath. His men flanked him, but his eyes — his goddamn eyes — locked on hers like a curse. “I warned you,” he said coldly. “But you still chose them over me.”

“That’s why I’m going to destroy the entire cycle.” Dante’s smirk faltered as the confidence in his eyes dimmed, and he visibly trembled with his gun in hand. He understood now. He was going to die here. Dante let out a hollow, breathless laugh. “You really think you’re any different from me?” Adrian remained silent. He simply pulled the trigger. The Devil Falls The bullet found its mark, slamming Dante in the chest. He staggered, gasping as his breath hitched. The gun slipped from his fingers and clattered against the floor. He wavered, his notorious smirk fading—his desire to make a clever remark vanished.

“You’re walking straight into a warzone.” Dante opened the car door. “Good. That’s where I belong.” Before climbing in, he looked once more at the bridge. The two bodies swayed gently in the wind, blood still dripping into the black water below. He whispered, almost to himself, “You wanted the Devil.” Then he got into the car. “Now you’ll have him.” The convoy roared back to life, speeding away from the bridge. Behind them, the note fluttered in the wind, the blood on it still fresh.