Chapter 17 - The Mastermind RevealedDante sprinted across the room, grabbing me by the shoulders and pulling me against his chest so hard I could feel the frantic, heavy beat of his heart.
"Are you hit?" he demanded, his voice rough, stripped of all its cool composure. "Mara, look at me. Are you hurt?"
"I'm fine," I gasped, melting against him for just a fraction of a second, letting the adrenaline drain out of my body. "I'm completely fine."
He let out a ragged breath, burying his face in my hair for a heartbeat before pulling back, his eyes burning with cold fury. He turned toward the lead operative I had knocked out, who was just now groaning and stirring on the floor.
Dante strode over, grabbed the operative by the collar of his tactical vest, and hauled him up to his feet, slamming him hard against a marble pillar.
"Who sent you?" Dante snarled, pressing the barrel of his gun directly under the man's chin. "Who is leading the Phoenix Syndicate now?"
The operative spat a mouthful of blood onto the marble floor, a twisted, mocking smile breaking across his bruised face. "You think... you think we're the head of the snake, Moretti? We're just the tail."
"Give me a name," Dante warned, the hammer of his gun clicking back.
"Look behind you, boss," the operative wheezed, laughing weakly.
A slow, rhythmic clapping echoed from the shadows of the vaulted balcony above the ballroom.
Dante and I both snapped our heads upward.
Standing on the ornate wrought-iron balcony, bathed in the red emergency light, was a tall, impeccably dressed man wearing a silver-trimmed trench coat. He held a glass of amber whiskey in one hand, swirling it lazily. As he stepped forward into the dim light, my breath caught in my throat.
He didn't look like a monster. He looked like an aristocratic businessman. But his face... his face held the exact same sharp, cruel jawline and dark, haunted eyes as the family portrait in the study.
"Hello, nephew," the man said, his voice smooth as silk, echoing off the high ceilings. "Did you really think a simple estate security system could keep your own flesh and blood out?"
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Dante’s entire body went rigid. The gun in his hand trembled—not from fear, but from a murderous, volcanic rage that had been boiling for twenty years.
"Uncle Vincent," Dante whispered, the name tasting like poison on his tongue. "You died in the villa fire twenty years ago."
