Face to Face

The library was silent except for the crackling fire.

Cassandra and Dante had spent hours hunched over documents, their eyes burning with exhaustion. The symbol was everywhere—engraved in old photographs, stamped on faded letters, hidden in the margins of reports.

"It's a network," Dante said finally. "Journalists. Investigators. Whistleblowers. They operated in the shadows, exposing corruption."

Cassandra traced the symbol with her finger. "My mother was part of this?"

"Yes." Dante's voice was quiet. "She was one of their best. She uncovered things that powerful men wanted buried."

"And they killed her for it."

"Yes."

Cassandra's jaw tightened. "Who else is still alive? Anyone who knew her?"

Dante was silent for a moment. Then he reached for his phone.

"I have contacts," he said. "People who owe me favors. I'll find out."

He made calls. The conversations were brief, coded. Cassandra watched him, her heart pounding.

Finally, Dante hung up.

"There's a man," he said. "An old journalist. He worked with your mother. He's been in hiding for years, but he's still alive."

Cassandra's breath caught. "Can we find him?"

"Yes. But it won't be easy."

"Nothing about this has been easy."

Dante's lips twitched—almost a smile. "Fair point."

---

Before they could leave, a servant appeared at the door.

"Mr. Moretti," the servant said, his voice trembling. "Your father requests your presence in his study. Immediately."

Dante's expression hardened. "Tell him I'll be there shortly."

"He said now, sir."

Cassandra's stomach tightened. She knew what this was about. The attack. The chaos. Vincent Moretti blamed her for all of it.

"I'm coming with you," she said.

Dante's eyes met hers. "You don't have to—"

"I'm coming."

He nodded once. They walked together toward Vincent's study.

---

Vincent Moretti stood behind his desk, his face purple with rage.

"This is unacceptable," he thundered. "This family has been under attack because of her." He pointed at Cassandra. "She brings nothing but danger to this house."

Dante stepped forward, his voice cold. "She's under my protection."

"You're protecting her?" Vincent's voice rose. "You're choosing her over your own family?"

"I'm choosing what's right."

Vincent laughed—a harsh, bitter sound. "Right? There is no right in this world. There's only power. And she's draining ours."

Cassandra stepped forward. Her hands were shaking, but she forced herself to meet Vincent's eyes.

"I didn't ask for any of this," she said, her voice steady. "I didn't ask to be hunted. I didn't ask to be here. But I'm not going to run, and I'm not going to hide. My mother died for the truth. And I'm going to find it."

Vincent stared at her. Something flickered in his eyes—respect, perhaps. Or resignation.

"You're just like her," he said quietly. "Grace. She had the same fire in her eyes."

Cassandra's heart stopped. "You knew my mother?"

Vincent turned away. "I knew of her. She was trouble. Always asking questions, always digging where she didn't belong."

"She was trying to expose the truth."

"She was trying to destroy us." Vincent's voice was sharp. "She almost succeeded. I did what I had to do."

Cassandra's blood ran cold. "What did you do?"

Vincent didn't answer. He just waved his hand dismissively.

"Take her and go," he said. "But if she brings more trouble to this house, I'll hold you personally responsible."

Dante's jaw tightened. "Understood."

He grabbed Cassandra's hand and pulled her out of the room.

---

The drive to the journalist's house was long and silent.

Cassandra stared out the window, her mind churning. Vincent had known her mother. He'd been part of everything. And he'd done nothing to stop her murder.

She wanted to scream. Wanted to cry. But she just sat in silence, her hand wrapped around the necklace.

The journalist's house was small, remote, hidden in the countryside. He was old and frail, but his eyes were sharp. He recognized the necklace immediately.

"Grace's pendant," he whispered. "You're her daughter."

Cassandra nodded. "I need to know what happened. Please."

The journalist sat down heavily. He was silent for a long moment. Then he began to speak.

He told them about the conspiracy—a network of powerful men who controlled everything. They were planning something big, something that would change the balance of power in the city. Grace Hayes found out about it. She tried to expose them.

"They killed her," the journalist said. "But not before she hid the evidence. In the necklace. Only her daughter could unlock it."

Cassandra's heart pounded. "How? How do I unlock it?"

The journalist looked at her.

"Your mother left something else behind," he said. "A key. It was hidden with someone she trusted."

"Who?"

The journalist's eyes flicked to Dante.

"His mother."

Cassandra's head snapped toward him.

"Your mother?" she whispered.

Dante's face went pale. "My mother?"

The journalist nodded. "Grace trusted Elena Moretti. She gave her the key before she died. Elena has been holding it for twenty years."

Cassandra's mind reeled. Dante's mother. The cold, silent woman who'd barely looked at her.

"She knows everything," Cassandra breathed. "She's known the whole time."

Dante's jaw tightened. "Then we need to talk to her."