Chapter 8

Giuliana POV

Dante had stormed out an hour ago, leaving a vacuum of terrifying calm in his wake following the doctor's report. He mentioned something about verifying financial records, but the look in his eyes promised retribution, not accounting.

The house felt haunted, heavy with the weight of unburied secrets.

I walked past Chiara's room. The door was locked from the outside now-a temporary cage for a volatile animal.

Downstairs, my aunt and uncle sat in the drawing room, nursing glasses of scotch in heavy silence, their gazes fixed on the wall as if it held the answers to their ruin.

I couldn't stay there. I needed to see it for myself. I needed to understand the hell Alessia had survived.

My feet carried me to the third floor. To the attic.

I pushed open the heavy door to the storage room where they had forced Alessia to exist.

The air was stagnant, smelling of dust and... an acrid, lingering undercurrent of smoke.

I frowned, stepping inside. I walked to the corner where Alessia's meager belongings were piled like refuse.

Her sketchbook lay there. Or rather, the corpse of it.

It hadn't just been torn; it had been eviscerated. Shredded with a blade, strip by agonizing strip, until the art was unrecognizable.

And in the corner, on the bare floorboards, I saw them-dark, jagged scorch marks.

Someone had tried to start a fire right next to the bed.

The rumors the maids whispered in the kitchen came flooding back. How Chiara liked to play with lighters. How she used to sneak up here when the house was asleep.

I knelt to inspect the burns. As I lowered my head, I spotted something shoved deep under the cot.

I pulled out a small, dusty box.

Inside were photos. Old snapshots of Dante and Alessia from high school.

But Alessia's face had been obliterated in every single one.

Violent, deep scratches gouged through the glossy paper, erasing her features entirely.

A chill raced down my spine. This wasn't just a spoiled brat wanting attention.

This was a predator trying to erase its prey.

Adrenaline surged through me. I grabbed the box and the remains of the sketchbook, turning on my heel. I ran downstairs, my footsteps thundering against the silence.

My aunt looked up, startled, as I burst into the drawing room.

"Look," I demanded, slamming the mutilated photos onto the coffee table. "Look at what your 'fragile' daughter did."

Isabella picked up a photo. Her hand trembled, the ice in her glass clinking softly.

"She tried to burn the room," I said, my voice shaking with rage. "There are scorch marks by the bed. She didn't just want to send Alessia to prison, Aunt Isabella. She wanted her gone. Permanently."

"No," Isabella whispered, her face pale. "They are sisters."

"No," I countered, ruthless. "One is a sister. The other is a monster."

Before she could respond, the front door slammed open, the sound echoing like a gunshot.

Dante was back.

And he wasn't alone.

He held a thick stack of files in his hand, his knuckles white. The darkness in his eyes made the air in the room drop ten degrees; I wanted to crawl under the table to escape it.

He didn't acknowledge us.

Instead, his cold gaze drifted upward, piercing through the ceiling beams toward the room directly above us.

Toward Chiara.

"Unlock the door," he commanded.