The past

Cassandra stared at the photograph.

Her mother. Grace Hayes. Young and smiling, her eyes bright with love and hope. She was holding a baby—a tiny bundle wrapped in a soft pink blanket. Cassandra. Her daughter.

The photograph was old, faded at the edges, creased in the corners. Someone had kept it for years. Someone had treasured it.

On the back, a note in handwriting Cassandra didn't recognize. Elegant. Looping. Feminine.

She would be proud of you.

Cassandra traced the words with her finger. Her heart ached. Her eyes burned.

"Who sent this?" she whispered.

Dante stood behind her, his hand resting on her shoulder. "I don't know. But we're going to find out."

---

They started with the photograph.

Dante examined it under a magnifying glass, studying every detail. The background. The lighting. The faint markings on the edge.

"It was taken in a hospital," he said. "See the logo on the blanket? That's St. Mary's. It closed down years ago."

Cassandra nodded. "So someone was there when I was born. Someone who knew my mother."

"Someone who kept this photograph for twenty years."

---

The trail led to an old storage facility on the outskirts of the city.

It was a place Vincent used to keep his secrets—a nondescript building filled with dusty boxes and forgotten files. Dante had learned about it from Marco, who'd learned about it from one of Vincent's old associates.

They broke in at midnight.

The storage unit was cold and dark, lit only by the flashlights they carried. Boxes lined the walls, stacked floor to ceiling. Dust covered everything. The air smelled of mildew and decay.

Cassandra moved through the space slowly, her fingers trailing along the boxes. She didn't know what she was looking for. But she knew she'd know it when she found it.

---

She found it in the corner.

A small box, tucked behind a stack of old files. It was unmarked—no label, no name. Just a plain cardboard box, sealed with tape that had yellowed with age.

Cassandra pried it open.

Inside were documents. Dozens of them. Yellowed with age. Written in her mother's handwriting.

She sank onto the floor, her legs giving out beneath her. Dante was beside her in an instant, his hand on her back.

"Cassandra?"

"She wrote these," Cassandra whispered. "My mother. She wrote these."

---

She read through the documents slowly.

They were notes—research her mother had compiled before she died. Notes about the conspiracy. About Vincent. About Marcus Kane. About everything.

There were names. Dates. Locations. Evidence of crimes so vast, so terrible, it made Cassandra sick.

But there was more.

There was a section about Alessandro—Dante's mother's lover. About his death. About what Vincent did.

There was a section about Grace herself. About her fears. About her hopes. About the life she wanted for her daughter.

And there was a section about Cassandra. About her future. About what Grace wanted for her.

My dearest Emma,

If you're reading this, I'm gone. But I need you to know—I didn't leave you. I fought for you until my last breath.

I was planning to escape. To take you and disappear. To start a new life somewhere far away. But someone betrayed me. Someone told Vincent.

I don't know who. But I have my suspicions.

Be careful, my darling. Trust no one. And know that I love you. Always.

---

Cassandra looked up.

Her eyes were wet. Her hands were trembling.

"Who betrayed her?" she whispered.

Dante didn't answer. He didn't know.

---

That night, Cassandra received another letter.

No return address. No name. Just a plain white envelope with her name written in elegant, looping script.

She opened it slowly.

Inside was a single name.

Evelyn.