“Sweetheart, that’s impossible,” I tell her. “Dante is dead.”
“I smelled his cologne first—that bergamot and cedar scent he always wore. Then I looked up and he was just standing there like nothing had changed.”
“Are you absolutely certain? Could it have been someone else, someone who?—”
“He spoke to me. Called me princess. Asked if I missed him.” Her voice cracks. “It was him, Alaric. Thinner, with scars on his face, but definitely him.”
“Boss!” Benedetto’s voice echoes from the hallway as running footsteps approach. “We heard screaming.”
“In here. Secure the house. Full lockdown until we know what we’re dealing with.”
I help Kasimira to her feet, keeping one arm around her trembling frame as Benedetto enters with two security guards. She leans against me like her legs might give out at any moment.
“Ma’am,” Benedetto addresses her gently. “Can you describe exactly what you saw?”
“Dante Moretti. Standing in that doorway.” She points with a shaking finger. “He looked directly at me and smiled.”
“Did he say anything else? Make any threats?”
“Just asked if I missed him. He told me about the crash. It looks like he was rescued. Then I screamed and he…disappeared.”
Benedetto exchanges a look with me. If Kasimira says she saw Dante, then she saw someone.
“Check the security footage,” I order. “Everything from the past two hours. And sweep every inch of this house.”
“Okay, boss.”
That’s when I notice the rose.
A single red rose lies on the library table beside Kasimira’s reading spot, its stem cut precisely, petals perfect and blood-red. It wasn’t there this morning when I kissed her goodbye. It wasn’t there an hour ago when I brought her fresh tea.
Someone placed it there recently. Someone who knows exactly what red roses mean to this family.
“Jesus Christ,” I breathe, pointing to the flower.
Benedetto follows my gaze and his expression darkens immediately. “Dante’s calling card.”
“He used to leave those for his victims,” I explain to the security guards. “Every woman he stalked received red roses before he escalated.”
“But sir, how could he?—”
“I don’t know how. I just know my wife doesn’t hallucinate, and she damn sure doesn’t leave herself red roses.”
“Boss.” One of the guards approaches with his radio crackling. “Security command needs you in the monitoring room. Says it’s urgent.”
The monitoring room occupies an entire floor of the estate’s east wing, banks of screens showing feeds from over a hundred cameras positioned throughout the grounds and building. Christian, our head of security, who replaced Tommy Russo, sits in front of the computer terminal with sweat beading on his forehead.
“Show me,” I demand without preamble.
“Sir, I’ve been reviewing footage from the past four hours, and…” He clicks through camera feeds with shaking hands. “Library feed, 2:47 p.m. Watch the doorway.”
The screen shows Kasimira reading peacefully in her chair, the German book balanced on her belly. The time stamp reads 2:47:33 when a shadow falls across the doorway.
Then a figure steps into frame.
My blood stops flowing entirely.
Dante. Unmistakably Dante, though changed by whatever he’s survived. Thinner, with visible scarring on the left side of his face, but absolutely my son. He stands in the doorway for thirty-seven seconds, watching Kasimira read, that same predatory smile I remember from his childhood when he was planning mischief.
