Caged By The Devil

Dante Vitale was a man who had long since abandoned any illusions about mercy. At 30, he had built an empire from blood and ruthlessness. His reputation stretched far beyond the borders of Italy, reaching into the darkest corners of the criminal world. They called him Il Diavolo, the Devil. To most, his name was a whispered fear, a promise of pain and death for anyone who dared to cross him.

With a light, well-groomed beard that framed his sharp jawline and added a touch of masculinity to his already imposing presence, Dante's rugged exterior was a reflection of his cold, calculating personality. His features were chiseled, and his skin carried a sun-kissed olive tone, a legacy of his Mediterranean roots. But it was his eyes....grey like storm clouds that truly marked him as a man not to be trifled with. They were eyes that could pierce through lies, deceits, and facades, eyes that saw everything and revealed nothing of what he thought.

Tall and muscular, Dante's physique was a result of years of rigorous training. His suits, always perfectly tailored, accentuated his form while maintaining an air of elegance and power. His every movement was measured, deliberate, and commanding. Beneath the polished exterior, however, lay a man who would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. His mere presence demanded respect, and his stare could freeze the blood of anyone who dared meet it.

Dante's reputation was not built on diplomacy or negotiation—it was built on fear. His personal code was simple: betray him, lie to him, or show weakness, and you would meet a swift, brutal end. His success was rooted in his ability to make the hardest of decisions without hesitation. There were no second chances in his world, only consequences.

Inside one of his private properties, the air was thick with tension. Dante sat at a polished oak table, his grey eyes cold and unblinking, as he observed the scene before him. Around him, his most trusted men stood in quiet vigilance, while a small-time drug dealer, a man who had crossed him by stealing from one of his shipments, knelt in front of him. His hands were bound tightly with thick rope, and his face was pale with fear.

The dealer had been begging for his life for the last ten minutes, but Dante hadn't flinched, hadn't moved a muscle. He was unmoved by the pleas. The man had promised to never steal again, to repay what he owed, but Dante knew better. His betrayal had crossed a line, and in Dante's world, there was no forgiveness for crossing him.

"Please… I beg you, Mr. Vitale. I'll fix everything. I swear on my mother's grave."

Dante's lips curled into a faint smile, though there was no warmth behind it. He leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers rhythmically on the surface of the table. His light beard caught the light in a way that only emphasized the sharpness of his features.

"I don't tolerate thieves in my business" Dante said coldly, his deep voice commanding and final. "And I don't tolerate liars either."

The man's desperate eyes flickered with a mix of confusion and hope, but Dante could see the fear creeping in as the weight of his words settled. The dealer had lied, claiming to be working with a rival gang, but Dante saw through the charade immediately. The betrayal had sealed his fate.

"You've crossed me, and now you think you can beg your way out of this?" Dante's voice was a frigid whisper, his grey eyes narrowing in disdain.

The dealer stammered, his words faltering as he tried to explain himself again, but Dante was done listening. With a smooth, practiced motion, he reached for the silver letter opener resting on the table and flicked it through the air. The blade gleamed under the dim light before it struck the dealer's hand, pinning it to the table with a sickening thud. A blood-curdling scream echoed through the room.

"I don't have time for excuses" Dante said, his voice still cold, devoid of any emotion. His grey eyes never left the dealer's face. "And I don't make exceptions."

The dealer's body spasmed as he screamed in pain, his face contorted in terror. Blood oozed from the wound, dripping onto the table. But Dante didn't react. He remained as calm and composed as ever. The dealer's desperation only seemed to intensify the coldness in Dante's expression.

The other men in the room stood by, silent. None of them moved. They all knew the rules. In Dante's world, mercy was for the weak. And the weak did not survive.

"Clean it up" Dante ordered, his tone flat and final. He turned his gaze away from the dealer, signaling that the matter was settled.

The two men moved quickly, dragging the dealer into another room. Dante knew the next steps.....they would make sure the man never see the light. And if he ever did, he would be met with an even worse fate.

_

_

Dante's black Audi weaved through the busy streets of Milan, the hum of the engine blending with the sounds of the bustling city around him. He had been deep in thought, his mind preoccupied with the delicate matters of the day, when the car's smooth ride was suddenly interrupted.

As he navigated a particularly crowded street, his eyes were momentarily drawn to a woman standing at the corner. His heart skipped a beat. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, delicate yet captivating, her long brown hair cascading like silk down her back, her features almost otherworldly. She had the kind of beauty that seemed untouched by time, serene yet intense.

But before Dante could process the thought, the moment turned into something far more dangerous.

Without warning, a second woman, clearly older, shoved the girl into the street, right in front of Dante's speeding car. His world came to a grinding halt as he watched in horror.

The girl's eyes widened in terror, and in that instant, Dante's grey eyes flared with a primal need to protect her. His foot slammed down on the brake, the tires screeching as the car came to a screeching halt just inches away from the girl's body. He felt his pulse racing in his ears, the sound of his heartbeat drowning out everything else.

The girl was frozen, her body trembling in the middle of the street, still inches away from certain death. Dante's breath caught in his chest as his eyes locked onto hers. The fear in her eyes was palpable, and it stirred something in him, something he couldn't place.

He watched as two other women approached her—one with genuine concern, the other with a mask of fake sympathy. The same woman who had shoved her stood there, feigning worry while the girl, still shaking, couldn't seem to shake the fear from her.

Dante's grip tightened on the steering wheel as he stared at the girl, his grey eyes narrowing. He didn't like seeing her scared. Something about her presence was different. Something about her seemed like she didn't belong in this chaos.

At that moment, he knew. He wasn't going to let her be hurt.

No matter what, this woman. this micia.....was under his protection. And Dante Vitale didn't give up what was his.