Collateral Kiss
“Whispers don’t win wars. Blood does.”
The scarred captain flinched, bowing his head. Silence fell again, thicker, suffocating.
From the corner, Luca’s laugh cracked the tension. Smooth, slow, the sound of a blade sliding from its sheath. He lounged against a pillar, arms folded, lips curved in mock amusement.
“Blood wins wars,” Luca agreed lightly, “but too much of it, brother, drowns even the victor.”
Dante’s head snapped toward him, eyes burning. “Careful.”
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