The Father's Confession

Cassandra stared at the words written in blood.

Ask him about Alessandro.

Her blood ran cold. She knew that name—Elena's lover. The man Vincent killed. The man whose letters had shattered Dante's world.

Dante stood beside her, his face pale, his jaw tight. He didn't speak. He just stared at the message, his hands trembling at his sides.

"Who wrote this?" Cassandra whispered.

"I don't know." His voice was hollow. "But I'm going to find out."

---

Dante found Vincent in his study.

His father was sitting behind his desk, a glass of whiskey in his hand, his expression calm and composed. As if nothing had happened. As if a woman hadn't been murdered in his home. As if there wasn't blood on the walls.

Dante didn't knock. He pushed the door open, his footsteps heavy against the hardwood floor.

Vincent looked up. His eyes were cold. Empty.

"You want to know about Alessandro," he said.

It wasn't a question.

Dante stopped in front of the desk. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides. His body trembled with barely contained rage.

"Tell me," he said.

Vincent set down his glass. He leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled in front of him.

"Alessandro was my best friend," he said. "My business partner. My brother in everything but blood. I trusted him with my life."

He paused. His jaw tightened.

"And then I found out he was sleeping with my wife."

The words hung in the air.

Dante didn't move. Didn't speak. He just stared at his father, his eyes blazing.

"I found the letters," Vincent continued. "The ones she wrote to him. The ones where she talked about leaving me. About taking you. About starting a new life together."

His voice didn't waver. It was flat, cold, emotionless.

"I couldn't let that happen. I couldn't lose my family. So I did what I had to do."

"You killed him," Dante said. His voice was quiet. Deadly.

"Yes." Vincent didn't flinch. "I killed him."

Dante's hands curled into fists. His body shook with rage. He wanted to kill his father. He wanted to wrap his hands around Vincent's throat and squeeze until there was nothing left.

But he didn't.

"How?" Dante demanded. "How did you do it?"

"I invited him to a warehouse. Told him we had business to discuss. And when he arrived—" Vincent shrugged. "I strangled him. Just like Isabella."

Dante's blood ran cold.

"What did you say?"

Vincent's expression didn't change. "I said I strangled him. Just like I strangled Isabella."

The room spun. Dante's knees nearly buckled. He gripped the edge of the desk, his knuckles white.

"You killed her?"

"She was a loose end. She knew too much. She was going to tell you everything—about me, about Alessandro, about what really happened." Vincent stood, his chair scraping against the floor. "I couldn't let that happen."

Dante stared at his father. The man who'd raised him. The man who'd taught him how to tie his shoes, how to ride a bike, how to be a Moretti.

He was a monster.

---

"You're a murderer," Dante said.

Vincent laughed. It was a cold, hollow sound. "I'm a survivor. There's a difference."

"There's no difference."

"You're naive." Vincent stepped closer. "Everything I've done, I've done to protect this family. To protect you. And this is how you repay me? By turning on me?"

"You killed the woman I loved. You killed my father—"

"Alessandro wasn't your father." Vincent's voice was sharp. "I am. I raised you. I made you. Everything you are, you owe to me."

"I owe you nothing."

---

Dante walked out.

He didn't look back. He just walked, his footsteps echoing through the empty hallways, until he found himself in the garden.

Cassandra was there, sitting on the stone bench, staring at the roses. She looked up when she heard him, her eyes searching his face.

She saw everything. The rage. The pain. The betrayal.

She crossed to him, pulling him into her arms. He broke down—sobbing, shaking, falling apart. He clung to her like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."

He didn't speak. He couldn't speak. He just held her, his body trembling, his tears soaking into her shoulder.

---

They stayed there for a long time.

The sun set. The stars emerged. The mansion behind them was quiet, the staff too terrified to make a sound. But neither of them moved.

Eventually, Dante pulled back. His eyes were red, swollen. His face was pale.

"I'm going to turn him in," he said. "I'm going to expose everything. The murder. The conspiracy. The cover-up. All of it."

Cassandra nodded. "I'll be right there with you."

"You don't have to—"

"I want to."

He looked at her. Something in his eyes shifted—gratitude, maybe. Or love.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"Always."

---

That night, Dante made calls.

He called Marco. He called his lawyers. He called the police. He told them everything—about Alessandro, about Grace Hayes, about Isabella. He gave them names, dates, evidence.

By morning, there was a warrant out for Vincent Moretti's arrest.

Dante went to his father's room to tell him. He pushed the door open, his heart pounding.

But, the room was empty.

The bed was made. The closet was bare. The drawers were open. Everything was gone.

On the bed, a single note.

You'll never find me.