The warehouse reeked of rust, oil, and impending violence. Dante crouched in the rafters, pistol in hand, eyes locked on Matteo Rossi as he counted stacks of untraceable cash beneath the flickering lights.

One shot. Center mass. Clean.

It should’ve been over in seconds.

But Dante’s trigger finger stalled.

The memory of Sofia’s note burned in his pocket. Her voice whispered in his mind: "There’s a traitor inside the Vellucci family."

And then Matteo turned his head slightly—and for a flicker of a moment, the resemblance was unmistakable. The same eyes. The same bone structure. A younger male version of Sofia.

Dante blinked.

His grip tightened.

Still, he didn’t shoot.

Suddenly, a door slammed below. Matteo looked up. Shouted something. A burst of chaos. Men scrambled. Dante fired once—on purpose, wide—and vanished into the shadows as Matteo bolted from the warehouse, unaware of how close death had come.

He’s alive.

Dante vanished into the night, heart pounding with something that felt too much like regret.

Later, his apartment felt colder than usual.

He poured himself a drink—something stronger than his guilt—and stared at the blank wall. He’d hesitated. Letting Matteo live had cost him the clean exit Don Vellucci had promised.

He’d broken the code.

Worse—he knew why.

A knock at the door.

Sofia stood there, wrapped in a long coat, her hair damp from the rain, eyes burning with something unreadable.

“I heard Matteo’s still breathing,” she said softly.

“You already knew,” Dante replied, stepping aside to let her in.

She didn’t deny it.

Instead, she walked past him, shedding her coat, revealing a simple black dress beneath—clingy, elegant, effortless.

“You’re a terrible hitman,” she said.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

Silence. Tension.

Then laughter—low, dangerous, shared.

“You want to know why I spared him?” Dante asked.

Sofia moved closer. “I think I already do.”

They stood inches apart. Everything unsaid hung heavy in the air.

“I don’t know if I trust you,” he murmured.

“You shouldn’t.”

He should’ve pulled away. But instead, his hands slid to her waist, and she didn’t stop him. Her lips found his like they had a score to settle—fast, desperate, aching. They kissed like people who knew tomorrow might not come.

Clothes fell. Breath caught. Hearts warred.

Somewhere between the sheets, they forgot about sides and syndicates. For one night, it wasn’t about the mission.

It was about them.

She woke before dawn, tangled in his sheets, staring at the ceiling like it might give her answers.

Dante still slept, chest rising steadily, the scowl he wore during waking hours softened by dreams.

She reached for her phone, quietly typing out a message to her contact in the rival syndicate:
“He’s in. All the way. Give me 48 hours.”

But her hands trembled before she hit send.

What the hell are you doing, Sofia?

She looked back at him, guilt knotting in her chest.

He wasn’t just another pawn anymore.

Outside, across the street, Enzo watched from the shadows. His cigarette glowed red as he took one last drag and flicked it into the gutter.

He raised his phone and snapped a picture: Dante exiting Sofia Rossi’s apartment just before dawn, head down, jacket zipped.

He didn’t smile when he hit send.

To: Don Vellucci
Subject: Problem.
Attachment: IMG_9432.jpeg

You can also listen to the Shadows of Vengeance Audiobook on YouTube