Dante's POV
Luca Moretti was bleeding faintly from his mouth.
It was enough to give his face some color, but not enough to actually kill him. More's the pity.
Dante stood three feet away, out of the blood splatter zone, watching Marco work. The basement was still cold, but that was perfect. Luca was going to hell soon, so he should appreciate the cool temperatures while he had them.
His hands were zip-tied to the chair behind his back, and his left eye was swollen shut. Blood dripped from his split lip onto his white shirt like a Jackson Pollock painting.
Marco hit him again, the sound echoing in the otherwise silent room. It was a controlled strike to the ribs. Luca grunted, his body jerking against the restraints, but he didn't scream.
Not yet at least.
"Who gave the order?" Dante asked, his voice calm like he was simply asking Luca what he did that weekend or like they were discussing the weather.
Luca spat blood onto the floor. "Fuck you."
