Evan

Adrian's warning hung in the air like a death sentence.

Dante was on his feet before Cassandra could process what was happening. He moved with practiced efficiency—checking the locks, closing the curtains, pulling out his phone to call Marco.

"A traitor," he muttered, more to himself than to her. "Someone inside my circle. Someone close."

Cassandra sat frozen on the sofa, her heart pounding. The file was still spread across the floor—her mother's handwriting, her grandmother's name, evidence of a conspiracy that went deeper than she ever imagined.

And now someone was coming for it.

Dante finished his call and turned to her. His eyes were hard, calculating. "We need to move. Now."

"Where?"

"Somewhere safe. Somewhere no one knows about." He grabbed her hand, pulling her to her feet. "Pack what you need. We're leaving in five minutes."

Cassandra didn't move. "Dante—"

"Now, Cassandra."

She pulled her hand free. "No."

He stopped. Turned. His jaw was tight, his eyes blazing.

"No?"

"I'm tired of running." Her voice was steady, even as her hands trembled. "I'm tired of hiding. I'm tired of waiting for the next blow to fall. If someone is coming for the file, let them come. We'll be ready."

Dante stared at her. "You don't know what you're saying."

"I know exactly what I'm saying." She stepped closer to him. "I've been fighting this war my whole life—even when I didn't know it. I've lost my mother. My grandmother. My sense of who I am. I'm not going to lose this too."

"This isn't about winning or losing. This is about keeping you alive."

"Then let me help." Her voice cracked. "Let me be part of this. Stop treating me like I'm made of glass."

Dante's expression shifted. Something in his eyes softened. He reached for her, his hands cupping her face.

"I'm not treating you like glass," he said quietly. "I'm treating you like the most important thing in my life. Because you are."

---

They stood there for a long moment, the silence heavy between them.

Then Dante spoke. "You want to know why I'm so afraid?"

Cassandra nodded.

He dropped his hands. Turned away. His shoulders were tense, his body rigid.

"I've lost everyone I've ever loved," he said quietly. "My grandfather. My real father. My mother—she's still alive, but she's not the woman I thought she was. The people I trusted, the people I believed in—they all let me down."

He turned back to face her. His eyes were raw, vulnerable.

"I can't lose you too. I wouldn't survive it."

Cassandra's heart ached. She crossed the room, stopping in front of him.

"You won't lose me," she said.

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do." She took his hands. "Because I'm not going anywhere. I'm not leaving. I'm not giving up. And I'm not going to let anyone—not Marcus Kane, not your father, not even you—decide my fate for me."

Dante stared at her. Something shifted in his expression. Something cracked.

"You're incredible," he whispered.

"I know." She smiled, small and tired. "But so are you. You've survived so much, Dante. You've been betrayed by the people who were supposed to protect you. You've been forced to become someone you never wanted to be. And yet—" She touched his face. "You're still here. Still fighting. Still loving."

He closed his eyes, leaning into her touch.

"I don't feel strong," he admitted.

"You don't have to feel it. You just have to be it."

---

They sat on the sofa, the file spread out between them.

They talked for hours. Really talked. Not about the conspiracy or the danger or the plan—but about themselves. Their childhoods. Their fears. Their dreams.

Cassandra told him about growing up with Evelyn—the good times and the bad. The way her grandmother would sing to her at night, the stories she'd tell about Cassandra's mother. The way she'd always felt like there was something missing, something she couldn't name.

Dante told her about his own childhood. The pressure. The loneliness. The weight of being Vincent Moretti's son. He told her about the first time he killed someone—how it had changed him, hardened him. He told her about the night his grandfather died, how he'd felt like the only person who ever loved him was gone.

They were both broken. Both scarred. Both fighting battles no one else could see.

But for the first time, they weren't fighting alone.

"You're not alone anymore," Dante said. "You have me."

"You have me too," Cassandra whispered.

---

They devised a plan.

They would set a trap for the traitor. Make it look like the file was still in the cabin. When the traitor came, they would catch them red-handed.

Cassandra would be there—but she would stay in a secure location, surrounded by Dante's men. If things went wrong, she would run.

It wasn't perfect. But it was the best they could do.

---

Hours passed.

The cabin was quiet. The fire burned low. Dante sat by the window, watching the darkness. Cassandra sat in the safe room, her heart pounding.

Then—footsteps. A figure approached. The traitor.

Dante watched from the shadows. His hand rested on his gun.

The door opened. The figure stepped inside. They moved toward the file—the fake file Dante had planted.

Dante stepped out of the shadows.

"Looking for something?"

The figure froze. Then turned.

A familiar face. Someone Cassandra trusted.

Evan.