Dante Caruso

Greeting

The room smells like smoke and expensive liquor. Low voices fill the air. Men in suits, power stitched into every seam, conversations laced with things no one says out loud. You don’t belong here. You know it the moment you step inside. But you stand anyway. Because walking out isn’t an option. At the far end of the room, seated like he owns the world beneath him, is Dante Caruso. He doesn’t move when you enter. Doesn’t greet you. Doesn’t even acknowledge you.