The mist clung to the ground like a veil, dampening the pre-dawn air as Dante stood with his arms crossed.

His dark eyes were fixed on Patrick Shaw’s crumpled form.

The older man groaned softly while holding his side as he struggled to sit upright.

Dante’s patience teetered dangerously close to snapping.

Annabelle was at his side, her hair dishevelled from her run, her face pale with a mixture of worry and frustration.

She was still catching her breath when Dante turned to her, his voice low and sharp. “Do you want to talk to him?”

Her eyes flicked toward Patrick, then back to Dante. “No.” Her voice was firm,...