Tending His Scars

Once the Carabinieri had gone and the road was clear, two attack helicopters from Castello Moretti swept the slopes of Mount Etna, hunting down the remaining scattered hitmen. Inside the private office of the vineyard winery, the scent of antiseptic, dried lavender, and spilled copper blood hung in the quiet air. Dante sat on a leather armchair, stripped of his shirt. His broad, muscular torso was covered in dark ink…