Chapter 66

• Dante sat in the dim light of his study, the heavy curtains drawn tight against the outside world. The air was thick with the scent of aged whiskey and the faint aroma of cigars, remnants of a life steeped in power and control. His eyes were drawn to a framed photograph resting on the polished mahogany desk—a picture of his mother, her face worn yet beautiful, a soft smile gracing her lips.
• He picked it up, tracing the outline of her face with his fingers, the memories flooding back like a tidal wave. “How I miss you, Mother,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “You struggled so hard for me, scrounging for scraps just to keep me alive. You fought against a world that wanted to see us broken.”
• The image of her frail figure, bent over a makeshift meal, haunted him. He could still hear her voice, soothing yet filled with worry as she tried to reassure him during their darkest days. “We will be okay, Dante. I promise.” But promises meant nothing in the face of Giovanni's cruelty.