Information was currency in Dante's world, and I was quietly going broke.
The next week passed in a blur of exhaustion. Between lectures, late–night shifts, and endless paperwork, I barely had a moment to breathe. My life had settled into a strange rhythm — normal classes during the day, and illegal medical work by night. The monotony might have been comforting if not for the ever–present tension that came with being surrounded by Dante’s men.
It didn’t take long for my curiosity about Dante to grow into something I couldn’t ignore. Every time I overheard a conversation or caught a stray comment, I paid attention. His name carried weight, spoken with both respect and fear.
Through whispered gossip, I pieced together a rough picture of him: the head of an criminal empire that spanned the eastern part of the city, running strip clubs, underground casinos, and more.
Drugs, money, and power — it was all under his control.
His last name, Giovanni, tugged at something in my memory, but I couldn’t place it. It was frustrating, like an itch I couldn’t scratch.
I’d been organizing patient records for about four days now, and though the gang members’ injuries were often gruesome, nothing surprised me anymore. It was a never–ending cycle of violence documented on paper.
But there was one medical file missing. Dante’s.
I’d been looking for it, even casually asking Dr. Simon once if he kept a record of the boss’s injuries. He gave a vague answer, dismissing it like it wasn’t important. But I knew better.
Dante wasn’t the type of man who escaped unscathed in a world like this. The scars on his body and the faint limp in his stride told their own story.
As I sat at the desk, my eyes kept drifting to the small cabinet beneath it. Dr. Simon had locked it once before, but tonight, the drawer was slightly ajar. My curiosity was a quiet itch I couldn’t ignore.
After glancing toward the door to make sure I was still alone, I slid off my chair and crouched down. My hands felt clammy as I pulled the drawer open.
The files were neatly stacked, but there it was, tucked near the back—a folder marked Dante Giovanni. My heart thudded in my chest as I pulled it out, feeling like I was holding something forbidden.
This was it. Dante’s file.
I hesitated. Opening it felt like crossing a line I couldn’t uncross. But my curiosity burned too hot.
My hands trembled as I pulled it open, the weight of forbidden knowledge heavy between my fingers. Clinical details spread across the pages in neat typescript: 36 years old, 6’5’’, 209 pounds, Italian descent, blood type AB negative, born in Milan.
But it was the injury log that made my blood run cold – twenty years of documented violence, each entry meticulously recorded in Dr. Simon's precise handwriting. The sheer volume told a story of survival against impossible odds.
The more I read, the more a sinking feeling settled in my stomach. Each entry painted a picture of a boy, then a man, who had been shaped by pain. There was no mercy in his history, no escape from the world he’d been born into. My fingers trembled as I turned the pages, and then I saw it.
One entry stood out from the rest.
Blood transfusion. Complex fracture of the arm in several places. Gunshot wound to the leg. Severe hematomas across the chest, abdomen, shoulders and face. The words blurred slightly as I stared at the page. This wasn’t just another brutal attack—this was a massacre. What the hell had happened to him that day?
But what truly made my stomach drop was the date.
13th of August. Sixteen years ago. My breath hitched.
It was the same night my mother was killed during a rival gang’s attack.
My vision blurred. It couldn't be a coincidence. The attack on our family, my mother's death, Dante's injuries... they could be connected somehow.
I wanted to slam the folder shut and shove it back in the drawer, but I couldn’t look away.
The pit in my stomach deepened as my mind raced through the possibilities. What if Dante knew about that night more than I did? What if he’d been even involved somehow?
I felt anger bubbling beneath the surface, but it was tangled with something else.
Sadness? Pity? The thought of Dante enduring such unimaginable violence at a young age left me shaken. No one should have to survive that kind of pain, no matter who they were.
I snapped the folder shut, my breathing unsteady. My fingers fumbled as I shoved it back into the drawer, slamming it closed. My heart raced, and I pressed my hands against the desk to steady myself. The questions swirled in my mind, louder and more overwhelming with each passing second.
I didn’t have answers. Yet.
Before I could stop myself, I was moving.
Tonight, with both Dr. Simon and Dante out handling "business," his office sat empty and unguarded. The perfect opportunity.
The lock picked easier than it should have. Despite every instinct screaming danger, I slipped inside. The heavy oak door closed behind me with a soft click that felt like sealing my fate.
Inside, manila folders lined shelves like soldiers, each holding pieces of the Giovanni empire. I ignored the evidence of criminal enterprises that would have been gold a week ago.
Only one thing mattered now.
My hands shook as I rifled through his desk drawers, searching for anything about that night sixteen years ago. Each folder I opened held pieces of his criminal empire – ledgers from the clubs, casino profits, shipping manifests – but nothing about the attack. My heart pounded so loud I was sure someone would hear it echoing down the empty halls.
Time slipped away as I dug deeper, more desperate with each passing minute. The rustling papers masked the sound of approaching footsteps, the quiet creak of the door opening behind me.
Papers rustled under my desperate fingers. Years of transactions, territory maps, lists of names – none of it what I needed. There had to be something about that night, about why–
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"
The voice froze my blood. Not Dante. One of his guards.
Before I could turn, rough hands seized my hair, yanking me up with brutal force that brought tears to my eyes. "Found ourselves a little spy?"
"I wasn't– I didn't–" Words failed as panic clawed up my throat.
The slap caught me off guard. Stars burst behind my eyes as I crumpled, copper flooding my mouth. Blood dripped onto the carpet as I pressed a shaking hand to my nose.
Heavy boots approached. The guard's shadow loomed over me, promising more pain.
Then new footsteps stopped in the open doorway. My heart stuttered as a familiar presence filled the room, electric and dangerous as a gathering storm.
I didn't need to look up to know who it was.
Dante.