Old Wounds Opened

Cassandra stared at the photograph.

Her hands were trembling. Her heart was pounding. The image blurred before her eyes—her and Dante at the interview, standing together, holding hands, smiling. A happy photograph. A hopeful photograph.

But the words on the back burned into her mind.

I'm closer than you think.

Isabella was out there. Watching. Waiting. Planning.

The fear was paralyzing—a cold, heavy weight in her chest. But beneath it, something else stirred. Something hotter. Something fiercer.

Anger.

She was tired of being hunted. Tired of running. Tired of looking over her shoulder. She'd survived Vincent. She'd survived Marcus Kane. She'd survived Jane and Big Aunty and every other enemy who'd tried to destroy her.

She wasn't going to let Isabella win.

---

Dante found her in the bedroom.

She was sitting on the edge of the bed, the photograph clutched in her hands. Her face was pale. Her eyes were red. But her jaw was set—determined.

He crossed the room, kneeling in front of her.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I should have known. I should have made sure."

"You couldn't have known." Her voice was steady. "She fooled everyone."

"I should have protected you better."

She reached out, her fingers brushing his jaw. "You've protected me every day since we met. You saved my life. You saved my grandmother's life. You've done everything you could."

"It wasn't enough."

"It was more than enough." She leaned forward, pressing her forehead to his. "We'll find her. Together."

---

Dante ordered Marco to investigate.

Every lead. Every contact. Every possible sighting of Isabella. The body in the morgue—was it really hers? The DNA test—was it tampered with? The coroner who signed the death certificate—where was he now?

Marco dug into Isabella's past. He found inconsistencies. The body had been cremated before a proper DNA test could be done. The coroner had disappeared. Witnesses had changed their stories.

Isabella had planned this. She'd planned everything.

---

That night, Cassandra told Dante about her dream.

"The baby," she said quietly. "I think it's a girl. I want to name her Grace."

Dante's eyes softened. He placed his hand on her stomach.

"Grace," he repeated. "It's perfect."

"We'll protect her," Cassandra whispered. "Both of them. No matter what."

Dante pulled her into his arms. "I promise."

---

The next morning, Cassandra received another message.

A voice note. Isabella's voice—soft, cold, dripping with venom.

"I'm not going to kill you, Cassandra. That would be too easy. I'm going to take everything from you. One piece at a time. Starting with the people you love."

Cassandra's blood ran cold.

She played it for Dante. His jaw tightened. His hands curled into fists.

"She's trying to scare you," he said.

"It's working."

---

That night, Dante held Cassandra as she slept.

He didn't sleep. He just watched over her—the rise and fall of her chest, the flutter of her eyelids, the way her hand rested on her stomach. His mind raced. His heart pounded.

He made a silent promise.

He would find Isabella. He would end this. Once and for all.

---

The next morning, Marco called.

"I found something," he said. "Isabella has been seen. In the city. At a hotel downtown."

Dante grabbed his coat.

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

"No."

"I'm not asking."

He turned to face her. Her eyes were blazing. Her jaw was set.

"You're pregnant," he said.

"I know." She stepped closer. "But I'm not going to hide. I'm not going to let her terrorize me. I'm going to face her."

"Cassandra—"

"I'm coming with you. Or I'll go alone."

He stared at her for a long moment. Then he nodded.

"Fine. But you stay behind me. You do exactly what I say. And if anything happens—"

"I know." She took his hand. "I know."

They drove to the hotel in silence.

The city passed by outside the windows—buildings, streets, people living their ordinary lives. Cassandra watched it all, her hand on her stomach, her heart pounding.

She didn't know what she would say when she saw Isabella.

She didn't know what she would do.

But she knew one thing.

---

She wasn't going to let Isabella win.

The hotel was too quiet.

Cassandra stepped through the lobby, her hand in Dante's, her eyes scanning every corner. The marble floors gleamed under the chandeliers. The staff moved in hushed efficiency. Everything was calm. Normal. Unsuspecting.

But Cassandra could feel it—a tension in the air, thick and electric. Isabella was here. She could sense her. Like a storm brewing on the horizon.

They took the elevator to the penthouse suite.

Marco and his men had already secured the floor. They stood guard at the elevator, their hands on their weapons, their eyes sharp.

Dante pushed open the door.

The room was empty.

But it wasn't.

Isabella was everywhere.

Her perfume lingered in the air—soft, floral, cloying. Her clothes were draped over chairs—silk blouses, designer jeans, a red dress that Cassandra recognized from the gala. Her photographs lined the walls.

Pictures of Dante. Pictures of Cassandra. Pictures of them together—at the summit, at the interview, in the garden of their home. Taken from a distance. Taken without their knowledge.

She'd been watching them for weeks.

---

Cassandra's blood ran cold.

She moved through the room slowly, her fingers trailing over the photographs. Each one was a violation. A reminder that Isabella had been there—in the shadows, in the corners, in the spaces they thought were safe.

Dante stood in the center of the room, his jaw tight, his hands clenched into fists.

"She was here," he said.

"She's still here." Cassandra pointed to a half-empty glass of wine on the nightstand. The lipstick stain was fresh.

On the bed, a single red rose.

A note beneath it, written in elegant, looping script.

Did you really think you could find me? I'm always one step ahead. But don't worry—I'll come to you when you least expect it.

Dante crushed the note in his fist.

---

Cassandra found something else.

A photograph, tucked into the frame of the mirror. Dante and Isabella—young, smiling, in love. They were at a beach somewhere, the sun setting behind them. Isabella was draped over him, her arms wrapped around his neck. Dante was looking at her like she was the only person in the world.

Cassandra's heart ached.

Not because she doubted Dante. She didn't. She knew he loved her. She knew Isabella was the past.

But she saw the life he'd had before her. The happiness. The hope. The love. And she saw how Isabella had destroyed it.

Dante found her holding the photograph.

"It's in the past," he said quietly.

"I know."

"Do you?"

She looked at him. Her eyes were steady. "I don't doubt you. I doubt her. She's not going to stop until she destroys us."

---

They left the hotel and returned home.

Dante doubled security again. He told Cassandra she wasn't to leave the house. No exceptions. Not until Isabella was found.

Cassandra agreed. But she wasn't going to sit idle.

She started investigating on her own.

She dug into Isabella's past.

Her connections. Her family. Her weaknesses. She spent hours on the computer, scrolling through old records, old articles, old photographs.

And she found something.

Isabella had a brother. A man named Victor. He'd been in prison for years—assault, extortion, attempted murder. He'd been released six months ago. And he'd been seen with Isabella.

A lead.

That night, Cassandra received a text.

Asking about Victor? That was a mistake. Now you've made him angry.

---

The next morning, a car pulled up outside the house.

Cassandra was in the kitchen, drinking tea, when she heard the engine. She looked out the window.

A man stepped out. Tall. Dark-haired. Dangerous. He had the same cold eyes as Isabella.

Victor.