Chapter 81: Meet Dante!
The air in the underground bunker was stale.
Not the ordinary kind of stale that came from a room being shut too long, but the kind that settled heavily in the lungs, thick and unmoving, as though the space itself had forgotten how to breathe. It clung to the skin and coated the back of the throat, unmistakable proof that the bunker hadn’t been aired in days—perhaps longer.
Worse than that was the metallic tang that lingered beneath it.
It was sharp and oppressive, hanging in the air so densely that it seemed to override every other scent. It didn’t fade or dissipate; it simply existed, heavy and persistent, like a warning no one bothered to acknowledge anymore.
The bunker itself was wide—unexpectedly so—and starkly illuminated. Stadium-grade lights were embedded into the ceiling, flooding the space with blinding white brightness. The kind of lighting meant for crowds and cameras, not for rest. Not for comfort. No human being could reasonably sleep beneath such lights.
And yet, seated at the center of the room was a man who appeared to be doing exactly that.
He sat slumped in a metal chair, his head tilted slightly to one side, eyes closed as though he’d simply nodded off. He was well dressed, clad in a tailored black suit that still held its sharp lines despite the circumstances. If not for the setting, he could have passed for someone resting between meetings.
Everything might have appeared almost normal—almost civil—if not for the heavy chains.
His hands and legs were bound tightly to the chair, thick metal links wrapped so securely that even a large animal wouldn’t have been able to break free. The chains dug into his wrists and ankles, unyielding and deliberate, clearly placed by someone who knew exactly how much restraint was needed.
He didn’t move.
The stillness of his posture suggested he had been in that position for a long time. Long enough for his body to surrender to exhaustion, for his muscles to stiffen, for time itself to blur.
A faint bruise marred the side of his neck, dark against pale skin, but aside from that—and the slightly rumpled state of his black hair—he looked disturbingly intact. Polished, even. Like a man who could stand up at any moment and walk straight into a boardroom.
There was no clock in the bunker.
No decorations. No identifying marks. Nothing to measure time by. The walls were blank and white, stretching endlessly in all directions, giving the room an artificial, almost surgical emptiness.
The only other features that drew the eye were the drawers lining both sides of the walls.
Metallic cabinets, neatly aligned, uniform in size and shape.
They were closed.
Time passed slowly—indistinguishable without reference—until the silence was broken.
Footsteps echoed faintly from outside, followed by the unmistakable jingle of keys. The sound reverberated through the bunker, sharp and intrusive, like a bell announcing judgment.
Moments later, the door opened.
Men dressed in dark suits filed in one after another. Some wore shades despite the harsh indoor lighting, their faces unreadable. Their builds were unmistakable—broad shoulders, disciplined posture—the kind of men who didn’t need to announce what they were capable of.
Guns were visible in the holsters hidden inside their jackets.
They moved with precision, lining up in a horizontal formation as they stepped fully into the room. Silent. Alert. Waiting.
Then one more person entered.
His hair was platinum white, striking and unmistakable. It set him apart instantly—there was no confusing him for anyone else. He didn’t take his place among the guards. Instead, he walked past them.
Toward the man bound to the chair.
His expression was cold. Neutral. Unmoved by the sight before him. Both hands were tucked into his pockets as he approached with an easy confidence, his presence alone commanding the space. There was a swagger to his steps, an authority that eclipsed everyone else in the room without effort.
"Wake him up," he ordered.
His voice was calm and low, the kind that didn’t need volume to carry power.
The command was obeyed instantly.
One of the guards moved to the cabinets and pulled out a pack of bottled water. The plastic crinkled sharply as it was dragged across the floor. Without hesitation, he twisted off the cap and began pouring the cold water over the man’s head.
At first, there was no reaction.
Then the guard tilted the man’s head back and forced the water into his throat.
The response was immediate.
The man jerked violently, managing to turn his head just enough to avoid choking. A harsh coughing fit tore through his body as he struggled to breathe, chest heaving against the restraints. His eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, then widening as he fought both the lack of air and the brutal brightness of the lights above.
His eyes quickly turned red—strained from coughing, assaulted by the light—as he squinted to make out the figures standing before him.
"Who are you?" he rasped, his voice hoarse and broken. "I—I think you have the wrong person!"
The platinum-haired man didn’t respond.
Instead, he gestured slightly, signaling for another chair.
The guards moved swiftly, pulling a collapsible chair from one of the cabinets. It unfolded with a metallic snap, making it painfully clear that the cabinets held far more than simple storage.
The man—Dante—sat down, positioning himself a few feet from the bound figure. His legs were spread slightly, posture relaxed as he leaned forward, elbows resting casually on his thighs.
Around them, the guards remained active.
They opened more cabinets, removing equipment piece by piece. Medical tools. Sharp instruments. Items arranged with unsettling order.
Enough to resemble the emergency wing of a hospital.
Enough to suggest something far darker.
"Please," the man pleaded, panic rising as he glanced around at the growing display. "If it’s money you want—I can give it to you!"
His chains rattled violently as he struggled, ignoring the pain biting into his wrists and ankles.
"Please... please..."
He turned back to Dante—and froze.
Recognition flickered across his battered face.
"I—I know you," he stammered. "It’s you. Dante—"
The punch came without warning.
Dante leapt from his chair and struck him square in the face.
The impact was brutal.
Bone cracked. Teeth flew. Blood sprayed across the floor.
Metal knuckles gleamed briefly before disappearing again as Dante pulled his hand back. Had he put his full weight into the blow, the man’s jaw would have shattered entirely.
The man screamed, a wet, broken sound, as blood poured down his face. Dante stood over him, silent, unmoved, his expression unchanged.
He raised his fist again.
And again.
Each blow was deliberate, controlled. Dante avoided the temples, avoided anywhere that might render the man unconscious. He wanted him awake. Aware.
When Dante finally stopped, the man was barely recognizable. His once-white shirt was soaked in red, his breathing uneven and shallow.
Only then did Dante speak.
"Oliva Braxton," he said calmly. "You were the one who found the loophole in the contract."
He paced slowly.
"The one that allowed Namira, Furie, and Warren—my father’s siblings—to take control of the company until I turned twenty-one."
He stopped directly in front of him.
"Enough that they could assign more shares to themselves while I fought for scraps."
Oliva whimpered, words tumbling out incoherently as he begged.
"I was just doing my job," Oliva cried. "I didn’t—"
Dante turned away, walking toward one of the guards. He took the gun offered without hesitation and returned, raising it to Oliva’s temple.
"Please! I—I have two children," he sobbed.
"I don’t," Dante said.
He pulled the trigger.
The sound echoed violently through the bunker.
No one flinched.
They had heard it before.
