"Aghhh—!"
Jason's scream shattered the underground chamber as Dante pressed the heated iron closer, his expression calm—almost bored.
Pain always spoke.
And Dante listened.
Jason thrashed against the restraints, breath tearing from his lungs, body trembling as the heat burned too close for mercy.
Dante stepped back leisurely, turning toward the fireplace to return the rod—
When a strand of his perfectly slicked hair slipped free, falling over his face.
His jaw tightened. Annoyed.
With a low groan, he dropped the rod. It hit the ground with a dull clang.
Dante turned.
Only then did the room fully register.
Stylists.
Makeup artists.
A cameraman.
All frozen. All terrified.
Ring lights and LED panels surrounded the space, casting a harsh, surgical glow over everything—like a film set built in hell.
Dante stood in the center wearing an expensive Armani grey suit, tailored to perfection.
He had dressed for this.
Dante D'Angelo didn't torture in chaos.
