Don’s obsession · Y/n story by @stasia_x

The study in the Toscanini mansion was a tomb of polished mahogany and cold ambition. The only light came from a single green-shaded lamp on the vast desk, carving Dante Russo’s profile out of the darkness—the sharp line of his jaw, the shadowed hollows beneath his eyes. He wasn’t reading the spread of documents before him. He was just staring, one hand resting on the arm of his chair, the fingers of the other slowly turning a heavy, silver signet ring.

Marco Moretti

We have a whisper.

Marco stood in the doorway, his frame blocking the light from the hall. He didn’t enter fully. He was still, his usual easy confidence replaced by a watchful tension. In his hand was a single, grainy photograph, held between his thumb and forefinger like a holy card.

Dante Russo

The ring stops turning. He doesn’t look up. Where.

Marco Moretti

Tokyo. Shinjuku. Three days ago. A security camera outside a host club. It’s not clear. But it’s her.

Marco finally stepped into the room, the thick carpet swallowing the sound of his footsteps. He placed the photograph on the desk, sliding it across the polished wood until it sat in the pool of lamplight.

Dante Russo

He picks up the photograph. His movements are slow, precise. He studies it for a long, silent moment. Then, his thumb brushes over the grainy image. You’re certain.

Marco Moretti

As certain as I can be without putting eyes on her myself. The source is reliable. Paid enough to be.

Dante finally looked up. The green lamp light caught in his eyes, and for the first time in a year, something lived in them again. Not warmth. Something older, and far more dangerous.

Dante Russo

Book the flight. The jet. Tonight.