The first thing people learned about Dante Romano was simple—
he did not hesitate.
Not when it came to power.
Not when it came to blood.
And certainly not when it came to mercy.
His name wasn't spoken. It was whispered, passed between men who knew better than to say it too loudly. In the underworld, he wasn't just a man—he was a verdict. Final. Unforgiving. Inevitable.
And tonight, someone had made the mistake of forgetting that.
The room was too quiet.
Not peaceful—never that. It was the kind of silence that pressed against your chest, heavy and suffocating, thick with fear. Even the air felt wrong, laced with the metallic edge of something no one dared to acknowledge.
At the center of it all, a man knelt.
His hands trembled. His breaths came out uneven, desperate, as though he could outrun what stood in front of him if he just tried hard enough.
He couldn't.
Dante stood a few feet away, perfectly still.
Dark suit. Unreadable expression. Eyes that held nothing—not anger, not pity, not even interest. Just a quiet, terrifying certainty.
This was routine to him.
Another mistake.
Another consequence.
"Please…" the man choked out, his voice breaking under the weight of his own fear. "I can fix this. I swear—"
Dante said nothing.
He didn't need to.
Power didn't beg. Power didn't explain.
Power simply ended things.
A flicker of movement—his hand lifting, slow and deliberate.
The room seemed to hold its breath.
And in that moment, everyone understood the same thing:
There were men who ruled with fear.
And then there was Dante Romano—
who didn't need to rule at all.
Because fear had already chosen him.He knelt down meeting his gaze the trembling,fear eyes meeting the cold ruthless one. He turns towards his men his one stare was enough for them to understand what he meant. He stands up and brushed off the invisible dust on his suit coat before heading towards his car.