Chapter 2

Gianna's POV

"No!" Leo screamed. "You can't do this!"

The moment the metal jaws clamped down on Leo's pinky finger, the sound of snapping like a dry twig echoed in the damp air.

Leo's agonized scream tore through the silence of the warehouse.

Dante didn't even blink. He squatted beside my brother, his polished dress shoes stepping right into the pool of blood. "Leo, tell me where she is, and this ends right now."

Leo curled up on the concrete floor, sweat and blood dripping from his forehead. He lifted his head, his lips trembling: "Gianna... is already dead."

Dante stood up abruptly. He loosened his dark silk tie, twirling the heavy steel pliers in his hand.

"Your sister is a traitor." He gritted his teeth, enunciating every word. "She isn't worth protecting, Leo."

Leo's breath caught in his throat.

Dante turned and jutted his chin toward his lead soldier: "Break every single one of his pinky fingers. One by one."

The soldier stepped forward, pinning Leo to the ground with a heavy boot on his left hand. The steel pliers clamped onto the pinky and twisted.

Leo's screams dissolved into choking sobs.

Dante looked down at him, a cold smirk playing on his lips: "Didn't you love painting, Leo? Let's see what kind of art you can create with these hands."

I lunged at the soldier's arm. But my fingers phased right through his rough sleeve.

No leverage. No sensation. I couldn't even make the faintest sound.

All I could do was weep and wail, entirely powerless.

The soldier snapped the second finger.

Leo's eyes rolled back; the excruciating pain pushed him to the brink of fainting. He lay trembling on the floor, barely conscious, but his lips were still moving: "Gianna... is already dead..."

Dante crouched down, grabbed him by the hair, and yanked his face up: "Playing tough? Fine."

He let go, letting Leo's head slam heavily against the concrete. Then he stood up and clapped his hands.

The sharp sound of applause echoed through the warehouse.

The metal doors of the warehouse slid open.

Several burly soldiers dragged my mother into the blood-stained room.

Rosa stumbled, her eyes wide with terror.

Leo's eyes widened. He struggled on the floor, his voice so hoarse it was barely audible: "Don't touch her-"

A soldier raised his hand and slapped Rosa hard across the face. The muffled, sickening sound hung in the air.

Rosa steadied herself, her chest heaving.

When she saw Leo's mangled hands, she shrieked: "Leo!"

Then she turned her head, fixing her bloodshot eyes on Dante, her voice raspy: "You're going to rot in hell, Dante. You will definitely go to hell."

Dante closed the distance between them in two strides.

He grabbed Rosa by her graying hair and yanked her head back, forcing her to look up at him.

"Where is she?" he asked, his tone terrifyingly calm. "Give me her location, and I'll let your son walk out of those doors alive."

Rosa stared right back at him, refusing to yield even in the face of death.

She swallowed hard, her voice rough but crystal clear: "She is gone, Dante. Gianna is dead."

Dante's jaw tightened. A muscle ticked beneath his skin.

He released her hair and turned to Leo.

He waved a hand at his men: "Bring the metal pipe."

Rosa's body swayed. She watched the soldier pick up the heavy metal pipe, watched them walk toward Leo.

Her eyes rolled back, and she passed out. She collapsed onto the cold floor like a discarded ragdoll.

Dante looked down at her, his face filled with disgust. He kicked her, rolling her over, and muttered a low curse: "Useless trash."

He walked past Leo, his polished shoes stepping over the pooling blood. He casually kicked my brother's battered body, treating him like a stray dog on the street.

"I'll make you pay, Gianna," he said to the empty warehouse, his voice dark. "The price for playing me."

Just then, a soldier rushed into the room.

Holding a ringing cell phone, he stopped in front of Dante, panting heavily: "Boss, a call from Miss Francesca."

Dante's expression shifted instantly.

In that split second, all the ferocity vanished from his face. He took the phone, his voice dropping, almost gentle: "Frankie?"