Dante’s POV

The atmosphere in my study was heavy with tension, the sort that didn’t merely hang around—it ate away at you. I had just removed my coat when one of my men rushed into the room, looking as pale as a specter. My stomach sank when I saw him. His shirt was drenched in blood, the hue spreading in irregular blotches, but it wasn't until he lifted his arm—or what remained of it—that I comprehended the complete severity of the situation.

His hand had disappeared. ...