C51 Where Is He?

The metallic scent of blood and the acrid stench of smoke filled the night air, clinging to Dante’s skin as he stepped out of the car.

The shipment dock loomed ahead, its skeletal structure illuminated by the sickly orange glow of fires that refused to die.

The destruction was absolute.

Dante’s sharp gaze swept over the scene, noting the charred remains of shipping containers, the twisted wreckage of steel frames, and the scattered bodies of his men.

Angelo stood at his side, his normally stoic expression shadowed by grim tension.

“Bastards didn’t just attack us,” Angelo muttered, his voice low. “They sent a damn message.”

Dante didn’t respond immediately.

He moved forward, his boots crunching against debris, his every step deliberate. The bodies of his guards lay in disarray, some burned beyond recognition.

For those whose upper bodies remained intact, their throats had been slit from ear to ear, the clean cuts mocking the chaos around them.

His men fanned out, scanning the area with weapons raised.

Dante’s breathing remained steady, but the storm brewing in his chest intensified with each passing second.

“Over here!” Angelo’s voice called out.

Dante turned to see Angelo crouching near one of the bodies, his gloved hand holding up a blood-soaked piece of paper.

He handed it to Dante carefully, his expression a mix of anger and unease.

Dante held the paper up, squinting in the dim light.

The words, though smudged with blood, were still legible.

YOUR REIGN IS OVER.

The words burned into Dante’s mind, his fingers tightening around the note until it crumpled.

“Someone’s trying to make this personal,” Angelo said, quiet but charged.

Dante’s eyes narrowed. “They’ve succeeded.”

Dante didn't believe in coincidence, and he was beginning to think there was a connection between this attack and what happened to Mikhail.

Angelo hesitated before speaking again. “Boss, you need to head back and let someone patch you up. You’re no good to anyone if you bleed out.”

Dante’s lip curled into a mirthless smirk. “What I need is to find the bastard responsible for this and make him beg for death.”

The dock stretched out like a graveyard, the once-bustling area now a picture of desolation.

The cold night air did little to mask the heat from smouldering embers.

The faint lapping of waves against the docks seemed grotesquely peaceful compared to the carnage.

Dante’s jaw clenched as he crouched by one of the bodies, his sharp eyes scanning the cuts on the throat.

Whoever had done this was efficient. Brutally clinical.

“Reign is over. Is it?” he muttered darkly.

“Fuckhead must have watched too many historicals,” Angelo responded through clenched teeth.

He had pulled out that note from the neck of one of the men he had personally trained.

Loyal men who had been with them for a long time.

Yeah, this motherfucker better run. Not that that would make any difference.

Dante stood, his dark eyes burning with cold fury.

"This fucker will regret the day he decided to step on my turf."

**********

Back at the mansion, Annabelle stood in the grand hallway, her heart pounding as snippets of a hushed conversation reached her ears.

Two members of Dante’s staff stood near the staircase, speaking in low, urgent tones.

“Did you see him?” one whispered, a tremor in her voice. “He’s hurt badly.”

“I know,” the other replied. “But we shouldn’t be talking about this. You know how the boss....”

Annabelle’s stomach twisted.

She stepped closer, her voice cutting through their conversation. “What are you talking about? Who’s hurt?”

The two women froze, their faces pale as they turned to her.

One of them stammered, “We didn’t mean for you to hear that…”

“Tell me,” Annabelle insisted, her tone sharper. “What happened?”

“We…” the woman faltered, her eyes darting nervously. “We shouldn’t have said anything. Please, excuse us.”

They hurried off before Annabelle could stop them, leaving her standing there with unease coiling in her chest.

“Dante,” she whispered, her mind racing.

She turned and made her way toward the recovery room.

The hallway leading to the recovery room was eerily quiet, the faint hum of the heating system the only sound.

As Annabelle neared the door, she heard a voice from inside, deep and unmistakably irritated.

“For fuck’s sake, doc! Just sew it up. I don’t need your goddamn sympathy.”

Dr. Aguilar’s calm voice followed. “I could numb the pain if you’d just let me...”

“Do I look like some weak little girl to you?” the first voice snapped. “Keep going.”

Annabelle hesitated.

The voice wasn’t Dante’s, but it was familiar.

Before she could process further, a large man she didn’t recognize stepped in front of the door.

“Move,” she said firmly.

The man raised an eyebrow but didn’t budge.

From inside, the irritated voice yelled, “Sal, let her in! She can’t be worse than this hack with a needle.”

The man guarding the door stepped aside reluctantly, and Annabelle entered.

Her stomach flipped at the sight before her.

The playboy she had seen in front of the hospital that day, was seated on the edge of the bed, shirtless, his side smeared with blood. Sweat plastered his dark hair to his forehead, and a half-empty glass of whiskey rested in his hand.

Despite the doctor stitching his wound with mechanical precision, he wore a crooked grin.

“Well, well,” he drawled, his voice laced with pain. “We meet again, princess.”

Annabelle froze, her eyes wide.

“Come on,” he continued, his grin widening despite the obvious strain. “Don’t just stand there. Come sit on my lap. I guarantee it’ll hurt less. Right, doc?”

The doctor rolled his eyes but said nothing, focused on his work.

Annabelle felt heat rise to her cheeks, her tongue-tied with horror and disbelief.

Then Mikhail let out a sharp curse as the doctor raised a bloodied bullet in a pair of steel graspers.

“Fucking hell!” Mikhail barked, his face twisting in pain before smoothing back into a smirk. “You get off on this, doc?”

Annabelle stumbled back, mumbling incoherently as she turned and bolted out of the room.

She didn’t stop until she was outside, the cool night air hitting her like a wave.

Her chest heaved as she gulped down deep breaths, trying to shake the image of his bloodied form from her mind.

She leaned against the wall, her trembling hands pressing into the stone for support.

The mansion’s expansive grounds stretched out before her, bathed in the silvery light of the moon.

The staff’s words replayed in her mind.

“He’s hurt bad.”

Her heart sank as realization hit her. She hadn’t asked about Dante.

Her eyes widened, and she pushed off the wall, a wave of dread washing over her.

For a brief moment, she hoped that they had been talking about that playboy in the Recovery Room and not Dante.

But the thought didn’t stay for long before her worry took over.

“Where is he?” she whispered shakily.