The limousine zoomed on a smooth road. The black of it melted with the dark sky.
Dante Valentino.
He traveled at night. He ripped people apart in the basement of his house. He killed and maimed and...
And he took him away.
Samuel Creed looked down at the picture in his gloved hand, illuminated by the flickering lights of the bus stop. He traced the familiar edges of Michael's face. His fingers had almost forgotten the feeling. His mind didn't quite remember many of their moments together.
It had been years. Two years. And Micahel's memory seemed to quiten in Samuel's mind with each passing second.
Samuel pocketed the photo and swore, to whatever god out there would listen, that he would rest only when the Valentino empire was ashes.
Only when Dante Valentino was ashes.
. . .
(1/6)
