The Sanctuary of the Seven Sorrows clung to the jagged cliffs of the northern coast like a parasite. Below, the Atlantic Ocean churned in a violent, slate-gray froth, its roar muffled by the thick stone walls of the estate. From a distance, the white marble and bell tower looked like a place of peace; up close, the perimeter was lined with electrified razor wire hidden behind meticulously pruned rosebushes.
"The 'nuns' aren't here for penance," Dante whispered, his breath a warm puff of air against Elara's ear.
They were crouched in the tall, salt-crusted grass of the cliffside. Dante was in full tactical gear, his silhouette a jagged shadow against the moonlight. Elara wore a form-fitting black bodysuit—Dante's choice for the "Silent Infiltration." The material was ultra-thin, acting like a second skin that emphasized every curve of her body.
As she adjusted her position, the tight fabric compressed her breasts, but the sheer lack of a bra meant they shifted and jiggled with every move, the heavy mounds swaying as she crawled forward. The friction of the bodysuit against her hardened nipples was a constant, erotic reminder of the tension humming between her and the man beside her.
"The Sisterhood of the Pale Cross," Dante continued, looking through his thermal optics. "The Circle's elite enforcers. They take a vow of silence and a vow of blood. They don't use guns; they use piano wire and poisoned needles."
"The ventilation system is integrated into the bell tower," Elara whispered, her mind flashing back to the blueprints she had memorized from the Golden Ledger. "My father designed the 'Confessionals' to have a two-way acoustic filter. If we get into the tower, we can listen to the entire estate."
They moved with the synchronized grace of predators. Dante led the way, his movements silent and efficient as he neutralized a perimeter guard—a woman in a gray habit who moved with the speed of a cobra. He didn't fire; he caught her in a sleeper hold, her body going limp in his arms before he tucked her into the shadows.
They reached the base of the bell tower. The climb was grueling. Elara had to pull herself up a rusted iron ladder, her muscles screaming. With every rung she climbed, her breasts bounced and jiggled against the tight black fabric of her suit, her body slick with a thin sheen of sweat and sea salt. Dante climbed below her, his gaze occasionally drifting upward to the rhythmic swaying of her hips and the provocative motion of her chest. Even in the heat of a mission, the obsession was a living thing.
They reached the acoustic chamber. Elara pressed her ear to the copper funnels her father had built.
Voices drifted up—hollow, echoing, and terrifyingly clear.
"The boy is at the gate, Mother," a cold, feminine voice whispered.
"Let him enter," came the reply. The voice was melodic, regal, and devoid of any maternal warmth. Isabella Moretti. "He has the girl and the book. He thinks he is the hunter, but he is merely bringing the sacrifice to the altar."
Elara felt a cold shiver race down her spine. Her breasts heaved, the fabric of her suit straining as her breathing quickened. "Dante," she breathed, "she knows. She's waiting for us."
Dante didn't look surprised. He looked ready. "I know my mother. She never plays a game she hasn't already won in her head. But she doesn't know you, Elara. She thinks you're just an 'Asset.' She doesn't know you're the one holding the match."
Suddenly, the floor beneath them vibrated. A low, rhythmic chanting began to rise from the chapel below.
"They're beginning the Rite of the Tenth Sorrow," Dante hissed, his hand flying to his combat knife. "It's a 'cleansing' ritual. If they've started, it means they have a victim."
Elara peered through a small viewing slit in the stone. Below, in the center of the chapel, a young woman was tied to a chair, her clothes torn, her body marked with the "disgusting" symbols of the Stage 3 organization. Standing over her was Isabella Moretti, dressed in a habit of pure white silk, holding a silver chalice.
"She's going to kill her," Elara gasped, her heart hammering so hard her chest visibly throbbed.
"Not if I kill her first," Dante said.
He didn't use the stairs. He grabbed a rappelling line and kicked through the stained-glass window of the bell tower. The glass shattered in a "Panorama" of colored light and shards. Dante descended like a vengeful angel, his boots hitting the marble floor with a bone-jarring thud.
Elara followed, sliding down the rope with a frantic energy. As she hit the ground, her bodysuit rode up her thighs, and the impact caused her breasts to jiggle violently, the soft mounds nearly spilling from the low-cut neckline.
Isabella Moretti didn't flinch. She turned slowly, the chalice still in her hand. Her face was a more mature, feminine version of Dante's—beautiful, cold, and utterly terrifying.
"Dante," she said, a small, cruel smile touching her lips. "You always did have a flair for the dramatic. And this must be the Architect's daughter. She's... quite a physical specimen. I can see why you've risked the empire for her."
She looked at Elara, her gaze traveling over her heaving chest and the tight black suit. "The Zenith will find her very... useful."
"The Zenith is a dead man walking, Mother," Dante said, his gun leveled at her heart. "And you're first in line for the grave."
Isabella laughed—a light, musical sound that made Elara's skin crawl. "You think you can shoot your own mother in a house of God? You're still the little boy who cried when I drowned your kittens, Dante."
She snapped her fingers.
From the shadows of the confessionals, a dozen "nuns" emerged, their hands gripping gleaming piano wires.
"Welcome home, my son," Isabella whispered. "Let the cleansing begin."