The storm outside battered the villa with relentless fury. Rain slammed against the tall windows, rattling them in their frames, while thunder cracked across the sky like the earth itself was splitting apart. Yet inside, the storm was worse.
Dante had summoned every man still loyal to him into the grand hall. The chandeliers blazed with light, casting long shadows across their tense faces. Isla sat silently at the far end of the room, her hand resting protectively on her stomach, her presence both a comfort and a dagger to Dante's pride.
His empire was shrinking, and he knew it. Supplies cut off. Allies slipping away. Even the most loyal lieutenants exchanged wary glances when they thought he wasn't looking.
Dante stood at the center of the room, his black shirt unbuttoned at the throat, his hair damp as though he had braved the storm outside himself. His voice carried above the thunder.
