Chapter 7:The ghost I couldn’t bury

Dante’s POV

Keep her sedated. Not too much.”

My voice sounds steady and Controlled. Like everything else in my life is.

The doctor nods quickly. He knows better than to question my tone. He adjusts the IV, murmurs something about monitoring vitals, then backs out of the room with the nurse trailing behind him. The door closes softly, leaving only the low hum of machines and the uneven rise and fall of her chest.

I stay where I am, at the foot of the bed.

She looks smaller now that she’s still. Fragile in a way that irritates me. I don’t like fragile things. They break. They make men careless.

Her lashes rest against her cheeks, casting faint shadows under her eyes. There’s dried blood at her hairline that someone didn’t clean properly. I make a mental note to have that fixed. The sheets are too white. Too clean for someone who was lying on asphalt less than an hour ago.

I tell myself she’s just another accident victim but my instincts don’t listen.

Something about her presence presses against my ribs, tight and uncomfortable. Like a door in my chest I welded shut years ago has started rattling.

I step closer.

The machines beep steadily, indifferent to my thoughts. Her breathing stutters once, then evens out again. I watch it longer than I should, waiting for something I can’t name.

My gaze drifts lower to her neck.

The scar is partially hidden by the hospital gown, but not enough. A thin line, pale against her skin. Too neat to be recent and too familiar to ignore.

My breath catches before I can stop it.

“No!!!”

I shut that thought down instantly.

I’ve seen thousands of scars. Knife wounds, bullet grazes, Surgical lines!! You name it. The Human body is a map of damage. This means nothing.

Still, my feet carry me to her side.

I lean closer, close enough to see the faint pulse at her throat. The scar curves slightly at the end. A shape burned into my memory whether I wanted it there or not.

My hand curls into a fist.

I’ve seen that scar before.

The past doesn’t ask permission. It crashes into me full force, ripping me out of the present and throwing me back into a night soaked in blood and fire.

I’m younger. Not weak, but not this hardened yet. The room is large, elegant, obscene in its beauty considering what’s about to happen. Marble floors gleam under harsh light. Chandeliers hang like witnesses that can’t look away.

My wife is there.

She’s holding our children close, arms wrapped around them like a shield she knows won’t work. Our oldest is trying to be brave, jaw clenched, eyes too old for his face. The younger ones are crying openly, clutching at her clothes, terrified and confused. Their fear slices through me sharper than any blade.

Her eyes lock onto mine.

They’re begging.

Not just for her life. For theirs.

Men surround us, fully Armed and ready to pull the tigger. They were Faces I know, Loyalty twisted into something ugly. Orders already given. No room left to negotiate.

I’m shoved forward.

A gun is pressed into my hand, cold and heavy.

“This is how you prove loyalty,” someone says behind me.

Footsteps echo.

Serena’s father is dragged into the center of the room.

He’s already bleeding, Split lip, his blood streaking down his chin. He is Still standing somehow, his spine straight despite the hands forcing him forward. He looks at me.

Not with hatred but With disappointment.

The first gunshot explodes.

His body jerks violently. Blood sprays across the marble. One of my children screams high and sharp. My wife sobs his name , trying to keep them quiet, trying to keep them alive by sheer will.

Another gunshot.

His leg gives out. He drops to one knee, gasping, one hand slapping uselessly against the floor. Blood pools fast, dark and spreading.

I’m pushed down.

“On your knees.”

I hit the marble hard. Pain shoots through my legs, but I barely feel it. All I see is my wife shaking, children pressed into her, their eyes locked on me like I can still fix this.

Another gunshot.

This one spins him sideways. He crashes onto his back, choking, eyes wide and unfocused. His chest heaves. He tries to speak. Nothing comes out but blood.

I can’t move.

My hands shake violently. Sweat runs down my back. My ears ring like the world is underwater.

They force my arm up.

“Finish it.”

The gun feels like it weighs a thousand pounds. I can barely keep my grip. My children are crying now, openly, the sound raw and animal. My wife’s face crumples. She’s whispering prayers under her breath, not to God.

To me.

I don’t remember deciding.

I remember the sound.

Loud, Final and too close.

His body jerks once, then goes still.

Silence slams into the room.

Fire comes later.

Flames ripping through the mansion. Smoke thick enough to burn the lungs. Orders shouted without mercy. I remember Serena’s mother outside, screaming her daughter’s name, clawing at anyone who came close. I remember my children being dragged away, crying, asking questions I couldn’t answer.

I remember turning my face away.

I remember choosing survival.

The present snaps back hard, like a punch to the chest.

I stagger a half-step away from the bed, dragging a hand down my face. My pulse is too fast. My breathing off. I force it steady, one breath at a time, like I’m still kneeling on that marble floor.

I look at her again.

She shifts, brows knitting, a soft sound slipping from her lips like she’s trapped in something painful. Her arm curls inward, instinctively protective.

That movement.

It hits me dead center.

I’ve seen it before.

The way her fingers curl. The way her head tilts slightly, seeking comfort even unconscious. The way her lashes flutter before settling.

The teenage girl from the garden overlays her face perfectly.

Long hair swinging as she laughed.

A quiet smile she saved for people she trusted.

A girl I promised would never be harmed.

A girl who vanished in fire and smoke and screams.

Her lips part. She murmurs something broken, unfinished. Not a name, not even a word. Just pain.

My throat tightens.

Denial cracks.

Slow, reluctant and Ugly.

If I’m right, this changes everything. It drags the past straight into my present and dares me to survive it again.

If I’m wrong… I still won’t let her walk back into a world that already tried to kill her.

I turn sharply and step into the hallway.

My men straighten immediately. They feel the shift. They always do.

“Lock this floor down,” I say quietly. “No visitors. No records. Anyone asking questions answers to me.”

They nod without hesitation.

“Private security,” I add. “Discreet. Around the clock.”

One of them clears his throat. “Boss, the meeting…”

“It’s canceled.”

That single sentence carries finality. No one argues.

I look back through the glass at her still form. Pale, breathing and alive.

Something I thought I buried is breathing again.

“I won’t make that mistake twice”.