The Awkward Dinner

Cassandra stared at the photograph in her hands.

Her and Samantha—young, laughing, arms wrapped around each other. They couldn't have been more than fifteen. It was taken at a carnival, the lights blurring behind them, their faces bright with joy.

She didn't remember the moment. She didn't remember who took the picture. But Marcus Kane had it. He'd been watching her even then.

Dante took the photograph from her hands, his jaw tight.

"He's trying to scare you," he said quietly. "To isolate you. To make you feel like you're surrounded by enemies."

Cassandra looked up at him. "Isn't that exactly what's happening?"

"No." He cupped her face. "He wants you to think that. But he's the one who's running out of time. He's the one who's desperate."

She wanted to believe him. She really did.

---

The summons came that afternoon.

A call from the mansion. Vincent wanted to see them. A family dinner. Dante refused at first—he wanted nothing to do with his father after everything. But Cassandra took his hand.

"We should go," she said quietly.

"Why?"

"Because I want him to see me. I want him to see that I'm not afraid of him anymore." She met Dante's eyes. "I'm tired of hiding. I'm tired of running. Let's face him together."

Dante was silent for a long moment. Then he nodded.

"Okay. But Samantha comes too."

---

They arrived at the Moretti estate just as the sun was setting.

The mansion looked different in the fading light—darker, more foreboding. Cassandra had once been terrified of this place. Now, she felt something else. Something harder. Something fiercer.

Vincent was waiting in the dining room. Elena sat beside him, her eyes red-rimmed, her hands trembling. She didn't look at Cassandra. She couldn't.

Dante held the chair out for Cassandra, then sat beside her. Samantha sat on Cassandra's other side, her presence a quiet anchor.

The tension was suffocating.

---

The dinner was awkward.

Vincent made pointed comments about Cassandra's background. Her education. Her "unfortunate" family history. He spoke to her as if she weren't there, as if she were a problem to be managed.

Cassandra took a slow breath. She didn't rise to the bait. She didn't let him see her flinch.

"I may not have grown up with money," she said calmly, "but I grew up with love. Something you wouldn't understand."

Vincent's eyes narrowed. Elena looked away.

Dante's hand found hers under the table. He squeezed gently.

---

Vincent brought up the evidence.

He warned Dante to drop the investigation. He told him Marcus Kane was too powerful, that going after him would destroy everything. He spoke of loyalty, of family, of sacrifice.

Dante listened in silence. Then he stood.

"You destroyed everything when you chose him over your own family."

Vincent's face reddened. "Watch your mouth."

"Or what?" Dante's voice was cold. "You'll kill me like you killed Grace Hayes?"

The room fell silent.

Elena gasped. Vincent's face went pale, then purple with rage.

"How dare you—"

"How dare I?" Dante stepped closer. "You murdered an innocent woman. You let her daughter grow up without a mother. You let me believe you were a good man. And now you want me to drop the investigation? To forget? To forgive?"

"I did what I had to do to protect this family."

"You didn't protect anyone. You protected yourself."

---

Dante took Cassandra's hand and led her out.

Samantha followed close behind. They didn't look back.

In the car, Cassandra broke the silence.

"That was intense."

"That was necessary." Dante's voice was flat. "He needs to know we're not backing down."

Cassandra leaned her head against his shoulder. "I'm proud of you."

He looked at her, something soft flickering in his eyes. "I'm proud of you too."

---

They returned to the safe house.

Samantha stayed the night, sleeping in the guest room. Cassandra was grateful for her presence—the mansion felt haunted now, full of ghosts and secrets.

Dante pulled Cassandra aside before bed.

"I need to tell you something," he said quietly.

"What is it?"

"Adrian called. He found something. About your father."

Cassandra's heart stopped. "My father?"

"Your real father. The one from the birth certificate."

She stared at him, her mind reeling. She'd almost forgotten about the birth certificate—the name that didn't match the man she'd believed was her father.

"He wants to meet tomorrow," Dante continued. "He said to come alone."