Dante Frist Crack

Cassandra woke before dawn.

The room was dark, the curtains drawn against the pale gray light. She lay still for a moment, listening to the sound of Dante's breathing. It was uneven—restless. He tossed beside her, his body tense even in sleep. Every few minutes, a murmur escaped his lips, words she couldn't understand.

She turned her head to look at him.

His face was drawn, the lines around his eyes deeper than they'd been just days ago. His jaw was clenched, his hands curled into fists against the sheets. He was fighting battles in his sleep—battles he couldn't win.

Her heart ached.

She slipped out of bed carefully, not wanting to wake him. The floor was cold against her bare feet. She padded to the door, glancing back once. He hadn't moved.

---

Jane was already in the kitchen.

The young maid looked up when Cassandra entered, her expression soft with concern. "Miss Cassandra. You're up early."

"Couldn't sleep." Cassandra sank into a chair at the small table. "Could you make something warm? Something comforting?"

Jane nodded. "Of course. I'll make soup. My mother's recipe. It always helped me when I was troubled."

Cassandra smiled weakly. "Thank you, Jane."

Jane moved around the kitchen with quiet efficiency, gathering ingredients, chopping vegetables, filling the air with the scent of herbs and broth. Cassandra watched her, grateful for the normalcy of it. The simple act of someone cooking for her. Someone caring.

---

Her phone buzzed.

She glanced at the screen. A text from an unknown number. Her heart stopped.

Vincent is at the old church. He's been there all night. Come alone.

Cassandra stared at the message. Her blood ran cold. The old church—the one where her mother used to take her. The one where they'd found the file. The one where everything had changed.

She didn't tell Dante. Not yet. She needed to think.

---

Dante woke to the smell of food.

He found Cassandra in the kitchen, setting the table. She was dressed simply—jeans, a sweater, her hair pulled back. She looked tired. But she also looked determined.

"You made breakfast," he said.

"I did." She gestured to the table. "Sit. Eat."

He sat. She joined him. They ate in silence for a while—spoonfuls of warm soup, pieces of bread, cups of tea. The silence wasn't uncomfortable. It was companionable. Two people who had been through too much to need words.

Then Cassandra spoke.

"I got a text. About Vincent."

Dante froze, his spoon halfway to his mouth. "What did it say?"

She showed him.

He read it twice. His jaw tightened. His hands trembled.

"It's a trap," he said.

"Maybe. But it's also the only lead we have."

"I'm not letting you go alone."

"I wasn't going to go alone." She met his eyes. "We go together. Or not at all."

Dante stared at her. Something in his expression softened—surprise, maybe. Or gratitude.

"Okay," he said. "Together."

---

They drove to the old church.

The sky was gray, threatening rain. The roads were empty, the world quiet. Cassandra held Dante's hand the entire way, her fingers intertwined with his. Neither of them spoke. There was nothing left to say.

When they arrived, the church looked exactly as they'd left it—abandoned, crumbling, haunted by memories. The stained glass windows were still broken. The doors still hung from rusted hinges.

Dante pushed open the door. The hinges creaked, the sound echoing through the empty sanctuary.

They stepped inside.

---

Vincent was there.

He was sitting in the front pew, his hands clasped in his lap, his face calm. He looked up when they entered, a small smile on his lips.

"I knew you'd come," he said.

Dante stepped forward, his body tense. "It's over, Father. The police are looking for you. There's nowhere left to run."

Vincent laughed. "There's always somewhere to run."

"Not this time."

"You're naive." Vincent stood slowly, his eyes never leaving his son. "You think you can destroy me? You think you can undo everything I've built?"

"I think you're a murderer. And I think you're going to pay for what you've done."

Vincent's smile faded.

His hand moved to his jacket. He pulled out a gun.

Cassandra's heart stopped. She grabbed Dante's arm, pulling him back.

"You should have stayed away," Vincent said. His voice was cold. Deadly. "Now I have to kill you both."

Dante stepped in front of Cassandra, shielding her with his body.

"You don't have to do this," he said. "You can still make this right."

"Make it right?" Vincent laughed—a bitter, hollow sound. "I've spent my whole life making things right. And what did it get me? A son who hates me. A wife who betrayed me. Nothing."

"You have nothing because you destroyed everything."

"Then I'll destroy you too."

Vincent raised the gun.

Time slowed. Cassandra saw everything—the trembling of Vincent's hand, the coldness in his eyes, the way Dante's body tensed, ready to take a bullet for her.

She couldn't let that happen.

She stepped out from behind Dante, her hands raised.

"Wait," she said.

Vincent paused. His eyes flickered to her.

"You want to kill someone?" Cassandra's voice was steady. "Kill me. Not him."

"Cassandra—" Dante's voice was sharp. Desperate.

She ignored him. She kept her eyes on Vincent.

"You've already taken everything from me. My mother. My father. My life. But you haven't taken my courage. And you never will."

Vincent stared at her.

For a moment, something flickered in his eyes—something that might have been respect. Or regret.

Then the gun wavered.

And a shot rang out.

---

Vincent fell.

Dante stood behind him, a smoking gun in his hand. He'd moved while Vincent was distracted. He'd fired before Vincent could pull the trigger.

Vincent was on the ground, bleeding. His eyes were open, staring at nothing.

Dante dropped the gun. His hands were shaking.

Cassandra rushed to him, pulling him into her arms.

"It's over," she whispered. "It's over."