What He Didn't Want

Cassandra stared at the text.

Congratulations on the baby. Too bad she won't live to see her first birthday.

Her blood ran cold. Her hands trembled. Her heart stopped.

She showed Dante. His face went pale—then dark with fury.

"He's not going to touch her," Dante said. His voice was ice. "I won't let him."

---

Dante made a decision.

No more waiting. No more traps. He was going after Donald. Tonight. And this time, he wasn't coming back until Donald was dead or in custody.

Cassandra insisted on coming.

Dante refused. He told her it was too dangerous. He told her she needed to stay with Grace. He told her he couldn't risk her.

She wouldn't back down.

"I'm not letting you face him alone," she said. "Not after what he said about Grace."

"Cassandra—"

"I'm coming."

They devised a strategy.

Marco, Evan, Adrian, and Daniel would provide backup. Samantha would stay with Grace at the hospital. Dante and Cassandra would confront Donald together.

---

Evan tracked Donald to an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city.

The same place where Vincent died. The same place where so much blood had been spilled.

Dante and Cassandra arrived at midnight. The warehouse was dark, silent. Too silent.

They stepped inside.

Donald was waiting.

He wasn't alone. He had men—armed, trained, ready for a fight. They stood in the shadows, their weapons raised.

"You came," Donald said. "I knew you would."

"It's over." Dante's voice was cold. "Let her go."

Donald laughed. "I don't have her. But I will. And when I do—"

The warehouse erupted into chaos.

Gunfire. Shouts. The sound of bodies hitting the floor. Dante fought through the chaos, his eyes searching for Donald. He found him—running toward the back door.

Dante fired. Missed.

Donald escaped.

---

Dante returned to Cassandra.

She was alive—shaken, but alive. He pulled her into his arms.

"He got away," Dante said.

Cassandra looked at him. Her eyes were wet.

"He'll be back."

---

In the morning, the warehouse erupted into chaos. Again. But, this time Dante was more dangerous.

Gunfire. Shouts. The sound of bodies hitting the floor. Dante fought through the darkness, his eyes fixed on Donald. Donald ran toward the back door—desperate, cornered, his men falling around him.

Dante chased him.

He caught him in the alley behind the warehouse.

Donald was unarmed now—his gun lost in the chaos. He stood against the brick wall, his hands raised, his chest heaving. The moonlight caught his face—the lines of grief, the hollow eyes of a man who had lost everything.

"It's over," Dante said. His gun was raised. His voice was cold.

Donald laughed. It was a hollow, broken sound.

"It's never over. You think killing me will change anything? You think it will bring her back?"

Dante didn't respond.

Donald's smile faded. His eyes hardened.

"You think you know your family," he said. "You think you know the people around you. But you don't. Someone close to you has been feeding information to your enemies for years. Someone you trust."

Dante's jaw tightened. "You're lying."

"Am I?" Donald tilted his head. "You've been betrayed before. By your father. By your mother. By everyone you've ever loved. What makes you think this time is different?"

Dante's finger hovered over the trigger.

He didn't want to do this. He didn't want to kill again. He'd killed his father. He'd killed so many people. The weight of it pressed down on him—heavy, suffocating, endless.

But Donald had threatened Grace. His daughter. His innocent, perfect daughter.

And Dante couldn't let that stand.

"You threatened my child," Dante said. His voice cracked. "You said she wouldn't live to see her first birthday."

"I was angry. I was grieving. I didn't mean—"

"You threatened my child."

Donald's eyes flickered with something—fear, maybe. Or regret.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "For everything. For Isabella. For the threats. For all of it."

Dante's hand trembled.

He didn't want to do this.

But he pulled the trigger anyway.

Donald fell.

Dante stood there for a long moment, his gun still raised, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The sound of the gunshot echoed in his ears. The smell of gunpowder filled his nose.

He'd killed again.

He lowered his gun.

---

He returned to the hospital an hour later.

Cassandra was waiting in the hallway, pale and trembling. She rushed to him, throwing her arms around him.

"Are you okay?" she whispered.

He didn't answer.

"Dante—"

"He's dead." His voice was hollow. "Donald is dead."

She pulled back, looking at his face. His eyes were red, swollen. His hands were shaking.

"What happened?"

He told her. About the confrontation. About the warning. About the shot.

"I didn't want to do it," he said quietly. "I didn't want to kill again."

She pulled him into her arms. "I know."

---

That night, Cassandra couldn't sleep.

She sat beside Grace's incubator, her hand pressed to the glass. The baby was sleeping peacefully, her tiny chest rising and falling.

She thought about Donald's warning. Someone close to you has been feeding information to your enemies for years.

She thought about the people in her life. Dante. Samantha. Daniel. Evan. Adrian.

Which one of them was lying?