At 2:48:10, Kasimira looks up. Her face transforms from peaceful concentration to absolute horror in the space of a heartbeat. She screams, the book tumbling from her hands as Dante steps fully into the library and approaches her chair. For the next four minutes, we watch him speak to her while she becomes increasingly terrified, scrambling behind the desk during their conversation. He places what appears to be the rose on her reading table before exiting toward the east corridor.
“Where does he go after that?” I ask through gritted teeth.
“That’s the problem, sir. He enters the east stairwell, but the cameras on floors two and three were malfunctioning during that exact time frame. He disappears completely from our coverage.”
“How did none of you catch this in real time?”
The three security technicians exchange uncomfortable glances.
Christian finally speaks up. “This estate employs over forty people across three shifts. During afternoon hours, we have twenty-plus people moving through the building. He was wearing work clothes and a maintenance cap—looked like any other contractor.”
“You’re all fired,” I say flatly.
Benedetto leans close to my ear. “Boss, we can’t trust anyone new right now. Better to keep them on probation—we know their faces, their weaknesses. New people could be plants.”
He’s right. In times like this, the devil you know is safer than strangers.
“Leave,” I tell the technicians. “All of you. Go home and wait for my call. Don’t come back until I summon you.”
They file out silently, leaving Benedetto and me alone with the monitors.
“I’ll take over security monitoring personally,” Benedetto says, settling into Christian’s chair.
“Good. I want every camera angle reviewed for the past month. If Dante’s been on this property before today, I need to know when and how often.”
“Done.”
“And double the security detail around Kasimira. Armed guards, twenty-four-hour rotation, someone with her at all times.”
“What about you?”
“I’m going to find out how my dead son came back to life.”
The next three days pass in a blur of phone calls, investigations, and mounting paranoia.
The crash was real. The plane went down exactly as reported, scattered across two miles of Nevada desert. But the bodies were never conclusively identified due to the intensity of the fire.
Which means Dante could have survived.
Which means he’s been hiding for months, planning his return, watching us rebuild our lives while he prepared to destroy them again.
Kasimira jumps at every shadow, refuses to be alone in any room, and sleeps fitfully even with guards posted outside our bedroom door.
“Any leads?” she asks on the third morning, dark circles under her eyes testimony to sleepless nights.
“The forensic team is re-examining evidence from the crash site. If Dante survived, there should be traces of blood, DNA, and some indication of how he escaped.”
“And if there aren’t?”
“Then someone is playing a very sophisticated game, using an elaborate Dante impersonator to drive us insane.”
“Which would you prefer?”
I consider the question seriously. An impersonator could be caught, identified, and finished off with conventional methods. But Dante himself, alive and planning revenge, represents a threat I’m not sure how to neutralize.
“I honestly don’t know.”
The call comes on the fourth day. The private investigator’s voice is cautious as he delivers news that might confirm my worst fears.
