Dante sat behind his desk without moving.
Smoke curled slowly from the cigarette between his fingers, rising toward the high ceiling of his study before dissolving into the dim light. The room was vast, built to intimidate. Dark marble floors. Heavy shelves lined with ledgers, weapons, and artifacts taken from people who had failed him. The desk itself was solid oak, scarred slightly at the edges from age and use, not damage. Nothing in this room was broken unless Dante allowed it to be.
He exhaled through his nose.
The memory of the sitting room replayed itself without effort.
The girl.
Belle.
Her voice had not shaken.
Her hands had not trembled.
She had stepped forward when every instinct should have told her to retreat.
That alone was rare.
Dante tapped ash into a crystal tray, his expression unreadable.
"Interesting," he murmured to no one.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
"Enter," he said.
