Marco’s expression grows troubled. “That might be harder than you think. From what I’ve observed, she’s less willing to follow orders.”
“That’s what my father’s influence does, but it’s nothing that can’t be corrected with proper motivation.”
“Maybe. But Dante…” He hesitates, choosing his words carefully. “Have you considered that maybe she’s happier now? That maybe forcing her back into our arrangement might not be the best approach?”
The suggestion makes rage build in my chest like pressure in a boiler. Marco doesn’t understand what Kasimira and I had together, doesn’t appreciate the beautiful simplicity of her complete devotion.
“She belongs to me. She was mine for two years, shaped by my guidance, perfected through my training. The fact that she’s temporarily confused doesn’t change fundamental reality.”
“And if she refuses to come back willingly?”
“Then we remind her that willingness isn’t required for compliance.”
Marco nods slowly, though something in his expression suggests he’s not entirely convinced. “What do you want to do?”
“Contact the Russians. Arrange a meeting. Let them know I’m alive and ready to resume operations.”
“And your father?”
“Will learn to accept the new reality. The shell companies belong to me, Kasimira belongs to me, and anyone who interferes with me reclaiming what’s mine will face appropriate consequences.”
45
KASI
“Mrs. Moretti?”Maria’s voice carries from the laundry room. “Could you come here, please?”
I find her standing beside the industrial washing machines, holding a piece of paper with trembling hands.
“I found this in your nightgown pocket,” she says quietly. “The blue silk one from last night.”
The note is written in Dante’s precise handwriting:You look beautiful when you sleep, princess. Pregnancy suits you. We have so much to discuss about our future together. Soon.—D
My legs give out. I grab the edge of the washing machine to keep from collapsing as horror crashes over me. He was in our bedroom while I slept, close enough to touch my nightgown, to watch me breathe, to slip notes into my pockets.
“Alaric!” I scream.
He appears within seconds, holding his gun and scanning for immediate threats. When he sees the note, his face goes white with rage.
“Pack a bag,” he orders. “We’re leaving. Now.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere that isn’t here.”
But before we can organize our escape, Dante appears in the kitchen doorway like he materialized from my nightmares.
He’s changed since yesterday, wearing a clearly expensive suit. His hair is styled exactly the way it was before the crash. The scars on his face catch the morning light, reminders of what should have killed him.
“Going somewhere?” he asks with that same cultured voice that makes the hair on my skin spike up.
“Get out of my house,” Alaric snarls, stepping protectively in front of me.
“Your house?” Dante laughs, the sound exactly as I remember—beautiful and terrible. “Father, surely you remember grandfather’s will. This estate belongs to both of us. Equal shares, equal rights.”
“You’re dead. Legally, officially dead.”
“Legal technicality. Easily corrected with the right paperwork.” Dante’s gaze shifts to me, and I feel like prey being evaluated by a predator. “Hello, princess. You look radiant. Pregnancy agrees with you.”
