12.
The underground vault reeked of blood and cigar smoke.
Dante Valencourt stood at the head of the table, his silhouette framed in golden lamplight and shadows that stretched like fangs across the concrete floor.
He wore black-a three-piece silk suit tailored to his muscular frame, shirt unbuttoned just enough to expose a sliver of his sculpted chest, where a thin scar traced downward like a whispered warning. No tie. Just power. Casual. Dangerous.
He didn't pace.
He stalked.
Slow, deliberate steps that made leather soles click like a metronome of doom.
His shoulders moved with lazy elegance, but his presence was a thundercloud coiled violence wrapped in velvet.
Around the table, the remaining five heads of the Valencourt syndicate sat rigid in silence.
Their sixth had not survived the last betrayal.
Dante spoke with the coolness of iced bourbon poured over flame.
"Philippe stole from me."
His voice was low, smooth, almost amused. Like he was telling a bedtime story.
"He skimmed funds from the Rotterdam deal. Used my cargo ships to traffic weapons not authorized by me. He assumed I wouldn't notice."
He stopped walking and leaned down to face the man seated nearest the youngest capo, nervous and sweating.
Dante's face was a masterpiece of cruelty aristocratic bone structure, sharp jawline, lips too sensual to be pure, and those pale blue eyes... cold enough to crack steel.
"You saw the footage?"
The capo nodded. "Yes, monsieur."
Dante smiled.
It was not kind.
It was carved from sin.
"Tell me what I did to him."
The man swallowed hard. "You... nailed his hands to the conference table. Then cut off his tongue. Burned his face with an iron. Poured acid down his-"
"Enough," Dante said gently, waving a ringed hand.
He straightened, flexed his gloved fingers once, and rolled his shoulders with feline grace.
The dim light flickered off the steel cufflinks that glinted like small weapons.
He stepped toward the next man.
"And yet here you all sit," Dante murmured. "Still breathing. Still doing business under my name. So ask yourself..." He leaned forward, his voice a silken razor. "Are your hands clean enough to keep your tongues?"
None of them moved.
The silence was thick.
Dante laughed softly. It was dark. Amused. Like a wolf watching prey realize the door was locked.
Then he sat.
Even the way he sat had authority. One knee over the other, back relaxed, arms resting along the chair's wide arms like a king on a throne of rot.
"I want every unapproved shipment double-checked. Personally. No rats. No sloppiness. No shadows I don't control."
He sipped from a tumbler of scotch. Slow. Precise.
"And if you lie to me again..." His smile returned, dark and dazzling, eyes glittering like polished ice.
"I won't kill you. I'll kill your wives. Your children."
Pause.
"Then I'll send you to bury them."
An hour later Dante stepped out of the vault, sliding on his coat.
He passed through the corridor with quiet efficiency, his long black coat sweeping behind him like smoke. The guards bowed their heads. Staff averted their eyes.
He was beautiful-but not safe.
Not one part of him was built for mercy.
In the mirror near the exit, he paused to adjust his cufflinks silver, engraved with his initials.
His reflection stared back tall, powerful, face chiseled from elegance and violence.
His jawline, dusted with dark stubble, framed full lips made for lies and sin. His eyes remained emotionless.
But inside?
He was burning.
Isolde.
Her name throbbed like a second heartbeat behind his ribs.
The way she looked when she trembled. The breathless panic in her voice. The way she clutched the dress like it was a sin she wanted to commit.
He wanted to taste every part of her innocence.
But first... she needed another gift.
Dante entered the boutique just before midnight.
The owner had been summoned and was already sweating behind the counter when Dante arrived.
The shop was one of the oldest jewelry ateliers in Paris exclusive, opulent, hidden behind a wrought-iron gate and frosted glass.
He didn't browse.
He commanded.
"I need something for a girl," Dante said, removing his gloves slowly, fingers strong and elegant.
The owner nodded quickly. "Yes, monsieur. Something classic? Youthful?"
"No. Something binding."
The man paled slightly.
Dante turned toward the case, eyes moving over the glittering rows.
His gaze landed on a piece in the center. A choker black velvet band with a small sapphire tear-shaped gem at the throat, rimmed in rose gold.
It looked like something worn by a ballerina who'd wandered into a wolf's den.
"That one," he said, tapping the glass.
The owner nodded. "Very rare, monsieur. Designed to sit right over the pulse."
Dante smiled faintly.
Perfect.
He stepped back and adjusted his sleeves as the gift was boxed in silver.
He added the note himself, scrawling the words with his favorite black pen, the ink bold and final.
"For your throat, ma poupée. So the world knows who owns the breath inside it. DV"
Back at his estate, Dante returned to his surveillance room.
He poured another drink. The fire cracked behind him.
On screen, Isolde slept fitfully, curled on her side, her fingers fisting the hem of her sweater.
He watched her for a long time.
Then whispered to himself,
"Soon, I'll put my hands around that throat.Not to harm. But to hold. To feel her tremble, and know she's trembling for me."
And the night outside listened.
Like it, too, was falling in love with a monster.