Chapter 1
He doesn’t knock.
He never did.
Dante watches the cameras in silence as the black car rolls to a stop at the edge of The Gallery’s restricted zone. The man who steps out doesn’t belong here—hasn’t belonged in Dante’s world for a very long time.
Not since they built empires together. Not since they buried them in blood.
Now he’s here. Not for business. Not to settle a score. He’s here to start a war.
Michael’s voice crackles through the speaker. “It’s him. He knew where to find us.”
Dante doesn’t respond. He’s already watching the man walk down the corridor past Gallery checkpoints—unhurried, confident, hands in his coat pockets.
Michael’s voice returns, tighter.
“Security says he used a clearance code from seven years ago. One that shouldn’t exist anymore.”
“It shouldn’t,” Dante mutters, eyes narrowing.
But it does.
Because this man helped build the very bones of this place—before he became its enemy. He doesn’t try to hide from the cameras. In fact, he stares directly into one… and smirks.
“He knows,” Dante murmurs.
Michael’s voice is tense. “Knows what, sir?”
That I’ve been hiding something.
That I’m protecting someone.
That I have a weakness now.
Liana.
The man lifts a hand—no wave, no weapon. Just a slow, casual salute. A signal Dante remembers from another life. One that used to mean I see your next move before you make it.
Only this time, he doesn’t. Because this time, Dante won’t play by rules. He’ll rewrite them.
The past isn’t knocking. It’s already inside The Gallery. And it just chose the wrong moment to come for what’s mine.
Behind him, Liana’s voice is soft, uncertain. “Who is he?”
Dante doesn’t look away from the screen. His jaw flexes once. “Elio Serrano.”
The name hangs in the room like a crack of thunder. Not a name. A warning.
Liana crosses to him, her brows pulling. “Is he from the Gallery?”
“No.”
“Then who—”
“I said his name,” Dante cuts, quiet but sharp. “That’s all you need to know right now.”
He presses the intercom. “Michael. Lock down the suite. Post security at her door. No one enters. Not even you.”
“Yes, sir.”
Liana reaches for him as he turns, panic creeping into her voice. “Dante—”
But he’s already gone, the door shutting behind him with a solid, deliberate click.
Elio stands in the corridor as if he owns it, taking in the space like a man surveying property he once built and is now considering stealing back. His coat hangs open over a crisp black shirt. His smile is sharp, almost charming—until you look at his eyes.
He doesn’t flinch as Dante approaches.
“Still walking like you’ve already won,” Elio says, spreading his arms. “I’ve missed that arrogance.”
Dante stops three paces away, unmoving. “What do you want?”
Elio clucks his tongue. “I’ve been hearing things. Little whispers. Your name keeps floating up in places it hasn’t for years. Old shadows saying… the Collector has a new prize. A very special one.”
Dante’s stare sharpens.
Elio grins wider. “I thought I’d come see if it was true.”
Dante doesn’t answer.
“You know me, Dante. I’ve always appreciated fine things.” Elio’s voice lowers, just enough to twist the knife. “And if you’re really hiding something in this fortress—someone… well. I’m intrigued.”
“Leave,” Dante says coldly.
Elio’s eyes flash. He steps closer, dropping his voice to a murmur only Dante can hear. “I just hope she’s worth what it’ll cost you. Because if she’s not…” He smiles. “God help you, Dante.”
He steps back, patting Dante’s shoulder as if they’re old friends and not ancient threats.
Then he walks away—unrushed, whistling a soft, tuneless note down the corridor.
Dante doesn’t move until he’s out of sight.
Only then does he whisper to himself, eyes still burning toward the dark hallway: “This time… I won’t bleed.”
