A Stranger's Threat

The mansion was chaos.

Staff members huddled in corners, their faces pale, their hands trembling. Some were crying. Others whispered in hushed, frantic voices. Dante's men moved through the hallways, securing every door, every window, every possible entry point.

Cassandra stood frozen in the library doorway.

Isabella was on the floor. Her eyes were open. Her body was still. Her blonde hair fanned out around her head like a halo. Her lips were slightly parted, as if she'd been about to speak.

She was dead.

Cassandra's stomach turned. She pressed her hand to her mouth, fighting the urge to be sick. She'd hated Isabella. She'd feared her. But she'd never wanted this.

"Cassandra." Dante's voice was sharp. "Don't look."

He stepped in front of her, blocking her view. His hands gripped her shoulders, turning her away from the body.

"Go to the kitchen. Stay with Jane. Don't leave her side."

"What happened? Who did this?"

"I don't know yet." His jaw was tight. "But I'm going to find out."

---

Dante examined the scene.

Isabella had been strangled. There were marks on her neck—finger-shaped bruises, dark and deep. No signs of forced entry. No signs of a struggle. Whoever killed her had been close. Trusted. Someone she didn't fear.

Dante's jaw tightened. This wasn't a random attack. This was a message.

He questioned the staff. One by one, they came forward, their voices shaking, their eyes wide. Everyone had an alibi. Everyone seemed genuinely shocked. But someone was lying. Someone in this mansion had killed Isabella Moore.

Dante's eyes landed on his mother.

Elena stood by the window, her face pale, her hands clasped in front of her. She was trembling. She was avoiding his gaze.

He remembered she'd invited Isabella. He remembered she'd been acting strange for weeks—secretive, distant, nervous.

He didn't confront her. Not yet. But the seed of suspicion was planted.

---

Cassandra sat in the kitchen, her hands wrapped around a cup of tea.

She couldn't stop shaking. The cup rattled against the saucer, the sound loud in the silence. Jane sat beside her, her presence quiet and steady.

"She was just here," Cassandra whispered. "She was just talking to me. She was alive. And now—"

She couldn't finish the sentence.

Jane reached over, her hand covering Cassandra's. "You're safe. Mr. Moretti won't let anyone hurt you."

Cassandra wanted to believe her. But she couldn't shake the feeling that something terrible was coming. Something worse than Marcus Kane. Something closer to home.

---

A letter arrived an hour later.

Hand-delivered. No return address. No name. Just a plain white envelope with Cassandra's name written in elegant, looping script.

Jane brought it to her, her hands trembling. "Miss Cassandra. This just arrived."

Cassandra opened it slowly. Her hands were shaking so badly she could barely grip the paper.

Inside was a single line, written in the same elegant script.

You're next.

---

Dante read the letter.

His fury was cold and quiet. He didn't shout. He didn't throw anything. He just stood there, his jaw tight, his eyes blazing, the letter crumpled in his fist.

"Who delivered this?" he demanded.

"A man," Jane said, her voice small. "He dropped it at the front gate. I didn't see his face."

Dante turned to Marco. "I want round-the-clock security. No one enters or leaves without my permission. No one."

Marco nodded. "Understood."

Dante turned to Cassandra. His voice softened. "You're not leaving the mansion. Not until I find whoever did this."

Cassandra didn't argue. She was too scared.

---

That night, Cassandra couldn't sleep.

She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Dante was beside her, his arm draped across her waist, his body tense even in sleep. The mansion was quiet—too quiet. Every creak, every whisper, every breath seemed amplified in the darkness.

She heard a noise.

A creak. A footstep. Something moving in the hallway.

She froze. Her heart pounded. Her breath caught in her throat.

Dante was already awake. His gun was in his hand. He pressed a finger to his lips.

"Stay here," he whispered.

He disappeared into the darkness.

---

Minutes passed.

They felt like hours.

Cassandra lay frozen, her eyes fixed on the door, her ears straining for any sound. She could hear her own heartbeat—loud, frantic, desperate.

Then Dante returned.

His face was pale. His jaw was tight.

"There's no one there," he said. "But there's something on the wall. In the hallway."

He led her out of bed, his hand warm around hers. They walked to the hallway.

Written in blood, on the white wall, three words.

Ask him about Alessandro.