Dante's POV
The basement was cold, made of concrete walls and a concrete floor. The only light source in the whole area was a single bulb that hung from the ceiling, casting harsh shadows across the room.
Ten men were lined the far wall, their bodies zip-tied to metal chairs. Their faces were already covered in blood as bruises formed beneath the drying liquid. Some were conscious while others were slumped forward, barely breathing.
Dante stood near the door, his jacket discarded and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His expression was blank... empty... like he was purging himself of all his emotions before he unleashed even more violence on the men in front of him.
Vincenzo leaned against the wall beside him, his arms crossed in front of his chest as he watched with clinical detachment.
Marco stood in the center of the room, a crowbar in one hand, and his knuckles already split and bleeding.
