The call ended with a soft click that seemed to echo in his dead.
For several seconds after the line went dead, Dante didn't move. His hand remained wrapped around the phone, his grip tight enough that his knuckles had gone pale against the dark casing.
The pressure inside his chest didn't ease. Neither did the stillness that settled around him, isolating him from the rest of the room despite the noise continuing just beyond it.
The gala carried on like his world hadn't just been completely wrecked.
Music flowed through the ballroom at a carefully controlled volume, designed to fill space without overpowering conversation. Voices rose and fell in practiced rhythms, laughter threading between them in easy bursts. Glass met glass. Silverware brushed porcelain.
It was all normal.
Too normal.
It felt wrong.
