Eleanor Vance’s tears were useless. In the grand, echoing foyer of the Thorne estate, her crying sounded like static to Dante. He didn't look at her. His entire universe was the tiny, shallow-breathing girl in his arms.

"Dante, please," Eleanor begged, her voice shrill as Silas Cross stepped toward her. "I'm a Vance! My father—"

"Your father is a businessman," Silas interrupted smoothly, his voice devoid of any human warmth. He gripped Eleanor’s upper arm with fingers like iron rebar. "He understands the cost of a bad investment."

Eleanor thrashed, her designer heels slipping on the polished hardwood, but Silas simply dragged her toward the heavy oak front doors. She screamed Dante’s name one last time, but the mafia boss had already turned his back.

"Silas," Dante said, his voice echoing in the sudden quiet.

Silas paused, his hand on the brass doorknob.

"Make sure she understands what it feels like to be locked in the dark," Dante ordered softly. "Before you end it."

Silas nodded once. The heavy doors slammed shut, cutting off Eleanor's shrieks.

Dante looked down at Clara. The housekeeper was still on her knees, trembling, her gray uniform stained with her own blood. She looked up at him, expecting to be dismissed, expecting the usual cruelty.

Instead, Dante knelt. "Can you stand?" he asked, his dark eyes entirely focused on her.

Clara swallowed hard. "Yes, sir."

"Good. Mia needs you. We are going to the clinic."