"Aghhh—!"
Jason's scream shattered the underground chamber as Dante pressed the heated iron closer, his expression calm—almost bored.
Pain always spoke.
And Dante listened.
Jason thrashed against the restraints, breath tearing from his lungs, body trembling as the heat burned too close for mercy.
Dante stepped back leisurely, turning toward the fireplace to return the rod—
When a strand of his perfectly slicked hair slipped free, falling over his face.
His jaw tightened. Annoyed.
With a low groan, he dropped the rod. It hit the ground with a dull clang.
Dante turned.
Only then did the room fully register.
Stylists.
Makeup artists.
A cameraman.
All frozen. All terrified.
Ring lights and LED panels surrounded the space, casting a harsh, surgical glow over everything—like a film set built in hell.
Dante stood in the center wearing an expensive Armani grey suit, tailored to perfection.
He had dressed for this.
Dante D'Angelo didn't torture in chaos.
He tortured in style.
Madness bowed to him.
Cruelty wore his name.
He loved recording these moments. Loved replaying them later. Loved watching fear unravel frame by frame.
And he always looked flawless.
No stains. No wrinkles. No evidence—except the screams.
He especially loved when women watched.
The way their faces drained of color. The way their bodies stiffened.
Fear did things to him. It turned him on.
"Fix my hair," he said calmly.
The stylist rushed forward, fingers shaking as she adjusted the strand, straightened his tie, smoothed his collar.
Dante walked to the cameraman, studying the screen.
He sighed.
"You didn't capture my smile," he said softly. "Is incompetence a hobby of yours?"
The cameraman swallowed hard.
"And these lights," Dante added, glancing around. "They're insulting."
He snapped his fingers.
"More."
Additional LED lights were dragged in, flooding the room with blinding white.
Dante turned slowly, his gaze slicing through everyone present.
"If this video isn't perfect," he said mildly, "I'll prepare every one of you myself."
A pause.
"You'll be boiled alive," he continued conversationally, "seasoned properly—"
A faint smile.
"—and served fresh to my wolves and piranhas."
No one breathed.
Dante enjoyed that silence.
He kept his animals well-fed.
Sometimes raw.
Sometimes cooked.
Always screaming first.
Satisfied, he turned back to Jason, who was barely holding on.
Dante crouched, lifting Jason's chin with two fingers.
"You should feel honored," he murmured. "Not everyone becomes part of my collection."
Jason whimpered.
Dante smiled.
Jason couldn't look away.
Dante's eyes held him in place — one darker than the other, mismatched like something stitched together by a careless god. They were mirrors of everything wrong in the world.
Jason shook uncontrollably.
This man wasn't human.
He was a walking punishment.
Deep inside, beneath the panic and the pain, Jason wished — desperately — that it had been Kieran who found him.
Kieran would've ended it fast.
A bullet.
A knife.
Silence.
But this man?
This man was torture.
Slow. Intentional. Creative.
Jason swallowed blood and fear together. No matter how badly he had ruined everything… he still cared for Aurielle.
And that thought alone nearly broke him.
Because this devil — whoever he was — would destroy her.
He prayed silently. Not for himself. For Kieran.
Please, he begged. Let him find out she's alive.
Dante tilted his head, studying Jason like an insect pinned to glass.
"So," he said softly, voice smooth as silk soaked in poison,
"tell me about my princess."
Jason's breath stuttered.
He knew exactly who Dante meant.
What he didn't understand—what terrified him—was how this man knew Aurielle at all.
"H–her name is A… Aurielle," Jason stammered.
Dante closed his eyes briefly, savoring it.
"Mmm. Aurielle."
He rolled the name on his tongue like a sin. Like a promise.
"What a beautiful name," Dante murmured. "Aurielle."
He opened his eyes again, distant now—lost in a fantasy Jason didn't want to imagine.
"You know," Dante continued conversationally, as if they were old friends catching up over drinks, "she's breathtaking. Angelic… and s…xy at the same time."
Jason swallowed hard.
"She has the most exquisite green orbs," Dante went on, smiling to himself. "Glowing. Like emeralds trapped in the dark."
"My feisty little doll.
My princess."
Jason's stomach churned.
Dante leaned forward slightly.
"She was a s…x worker, yes?"
Jason stiffened, nodding.
He didn't know how Dante knew. He didn't want to ask.
"Amazing," Dante chuckled. "That means she probably knows how to give excellent h…ad."
He laughed softly to himself.
Jason's eyes widened in horror.
"Go on," Dante said sweetly. "Tell me more about her."
Jason swallowed again. His throat felt raw.
"She… she has a son."
The shift was immediate.
For the first time, anger flickered in Dante's eyes—cold, violent, possessive.
"What else?" Dante asked quietly.
Jason's voice broke.
"She's… married."
Dante didn't ask who.
He didn't ask why.
He simply reached into his pocket.
Steel flashed.
Before Jason could scream, Dante drove the dagger straight into his chest.
Jason gasped, choking, blood bursting from his mouth—splattering onto Dante's crisp white shirt beneath his suit.
The room went dead silent.
Every man present froze, unsure if their boss was calm… or about to erupt.
Dante looked down at his shirt. Then back at Jason.
"Tsk. Tsk. Tsk," he sighed. "Look what you did."
Jason was fading fast, vision blurring, blood soaking his clothes.
"You stained my white, Jason," Dante said mildly.
A pause.
"I was supposed to have dinner with my princess Aurielle tonight."
"And now my Armani suit—ten thousand dollars, by the way—is ruined."
Another sigh.
"And my shirt too."
He leaned closer, letting Jason inhale his cologne—expensive, dark, intoxicating.
"Don't die yet," Dante whispered. "I haven't punished you properly."
Then his smile returned.
Slow. Beautiful. Terrifying.
"Aurielle will pay for this," he said cheerfully. "For marrying another man."
His laugh spilled out—low, smooth, seductive, unhinged.
"Oh, believe me," he said, voice insane yet charming, "she'll be punished."
He straightened.
"And her husband?"
A grin stretched across his face.
"I'll kill him."
Dante yanked the knife out—
—and stabbed again. And again. And again.
Blood splattered across his face, warm and sticky, but Dante didn't flinch. He smiled through it, breath steady, movements precise.
When he was done, he let the knife fall.
Jason's body collapsed.
Dante clapped his hands once.
His men entered immediately.
"I want him cut into pieces," Dante said casually. "Boiled. Roasted. Or better yet—baked."
He tilted his head thoughtfully.
"Make sure he's well-seasoned."
"My wolves need a proper meal."
"And his d…ck and head?"
Feed them to my piranhas. Fresh meat.
Dante adjusted his cuffs, irritation returning.
He needed a new shirt.
A new suit.
He was late.
His princess was waiting.