One hundred & Ten

One hundred & Ten
Your… Your sister.. Elena,” Luciano said, not even trying to sound smart. His bargains were small, desperate. “Okay will corporate...I’ll give you half. I’ll step down. I’ll disappear.”

You must think you have a choice,” Dante said. “We are not done yet . You don't get to have it this easy.” He leaned in so close their faces were inches apart. Luciano could smell the hard cold of Dante… not sweat, smell of danger. “ once I'm done with you... There would be nothing left... Just hold on.”

The room shifted. A lawyer arrived, a clean man in a dark suit. He read the papers like a priest reads scripture, making sure the language was right. He prepared affidavits. He placed a blank piece of paper, a pen, and a witness list in front of Luciano.

“Sign,” the lawyer said. There was no heat in his voice. It was a command wrapped in procedure.

Luciano reached for the pen. His hand shook so badly the tip scraped the paper. He looked up, begging for a reprieve with his eyes. No one offered one. Marco kept the screen rolling. Antonio watched like a man at the gates.

He put his name down. One thing became clear: he was more careful now with handwriting than with his actions. He read each line and mouthed it. He said the banking instructions aloud and dictated the passwords. For every command he made, Marco typed, and the lawyer notarized. The names flowed.… emails, account numbers, keys. He handed over a list of shell companies and the people who knew their true owners.

Good,” Dante said softly. The sound was not triumph so much as completion. “Now, we make it official. We file it. We secure it.”

They took photographs of each signed page. They recorded the whole thing on video. They made a motion to the bank with the lawyer and sent preliminary documents encrypted. The Ravanelli brothers made sure the paperwork had layers….  legal, financial, witnessed. If a man tried to fight it later, they had a chain of custody that would not be broken.

Luciano tried to stand. His legs fell weak. The brothers forced him back into his chair with quiet hands. 

“You hurt my family,” Antonio said, voice low. “You and that bitch… that's bastard Victor will pay. We're not done yet.”

“Please,” Luciano begged. His voice had the edges of a man who could not think of anything but himself. 

Dante returned home past midnight.

The city was asleep, the streets washed in a thin film of rain. The car rolled through the gates of the Virello mansion, quiet as a shadow. When he stepped out, the night air bit against his skin, cool and still, smelling faintly of smoke and iron. The house stood ahead... tall, silent, and safe. For the first time in a long time, he let his shoulders drop just a little.

Inside, the lights were dim. Lamps glowed low along the hallway, throwing soft golden circles across the marble floor. The air smelled like lavender and coffee faint reminders of the morning he had shared with Elena. Everything felt too peaceful, almost unreal after the cold, hard edges of the day.

He slipped off his coat, his shirt still faintly wrinkled from hours of work that no one would ever speak of. The faint red mark on his palm had dried; a reminder of the man who had begged before him, and of the promise Dante had finally kept. Revenge was never clean. It always left something behind...the smell, the silence, the echo of voices.

He walked deeper into the house, his footsteps quiet.

The living room light was still on. The fireplace had burned low, leaving only glowing coals that threw soft amber light across the room. And there she was.

Elena.

She was curled up on the couch beneath a cream-colored blanket, her head resting against a pillow, one hand tucked under her chin. Her hair spilled across her face, soft and dark, catching the faint light like silk. She had fallen asleep waiting for him.

For a moment, Dante just stood there, watching her. All the hardness in him, the ice that had built up through the night, began to melt. He knelt beside her slowly, careful not to wake her, and brushed a loose strand of hair from her cheek. Her skin was warm beneath his fingers.

Her eyes fluttered open...sleepy, gentle, and full of that quiet trust that always undid him.

“You came back,” she whispered, her voice still heavy with dreams.

Dante smiled faintly. “I promised I would.”

Her lips curved in a small, tired smile. She reached up, her fingertips brushing along his jaw, tracing the faint shadow of his beard. “Good.  Always keep your promises,” she said softly.

He caught her hand, pressed a kiss into her palm. The simple touch steadied him more than anything else ever could. “You shouldn’t have waited up,” he murmured.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said, her voice barely above a breath. “Not until I knew you were home.”

He leaned down and kissed her forehead. The warmth of her skin seeped into him, slow and grounding. For the first time that day, he felt human again. “Go back to sleep, amore,” he whispered against her hair. “You should get some rest.”

She looked at him for a moment longer, her eyes glimmering in the dim light, then nodded drowsily. “Don’t stay out too long next time,” she murmured, already halfway back to dreams.

“I won’t,” he promised.

He stayed kneeling beside her for a long time after her breathing steadied. The only sound was the faint ticking of the old clock on the wall and the low hiss of the dying fire. He brushed her hair back once more and tucked the blanket tighter around her shoulders.

She looked peaceful.… the kind of peace he had fought for, killed for. The kind he could never seem to hold for long.

He stood and took a slow breath. The air in the room was warm, soft….too soft for a man like him. Yet he couldn’t walk away immediately. He turned off the small lamp beside her, leaving only the soft glow of the embers. The light danced over her face, making her look untouched by the darkness of the world he lived in.

Dante leaned against the doorway and watched her one last time.

His chest ached with something heavy.… love, guilt, exhaustion, all tangled into one unspoken feeling. The revenge had begun, but it didn’t feel like victory. Not yet. The image of Luciano’s pale, broken face still flickered in his mind. The begging, the signing, the sound of defeat. Dante had thought that moment would bring him peace. Instead, it left him hollow.

He turned away quietly, climbing the stairs. His footsteps echoed faintly, blending with the rhythm of her steady breathing from below. Upstairs, he entered their room and sat on the edge of the bed. The faint scent of her perfume still clung to the sheets.

He took off his watch, loosened his shirt, and stared out the window. The city lights were small and distant...  the same city that had taken so much from them.

His reflection in the glass looked like someone else... colder, older.

He thought of the promise he had made that morning: I’ll always come home.

He had kept it. But part of him knew that one day, vengeance might demand a price even he couldn’t pay.

He lay down on the bed, one arm behind his head, listening to the quiet house. Somewhere below, Elena shifted in her sleep, murmuring his name.

He closed his eyes, exhaled, and whispered softly, “I’m here.”

Sleep didn’t come quickly. His mind replayed the night...  the drive, the silence of the room where Luciano had begged, the way the Ravanelli brothers had watched without emotion. The ink on those papers, the moment the transfer was sealed.… it should have felt like justice. But justice in his world was just another word for survival.

Still, for tonight, he could rest. The first piece of the plan was in place.

Tomorrow would bring the next move.