Chapter 4 Echoes of the Past

It was strange how silence could scream louder than words.

The morning after Dante's unexpected vulnerability, the air between us felt heavier. Like a storm was coming, but no one dared acknowledge the dark clouds hanging overhead. I got dressed slowly, my mind replaying every word from last night-especially the way he'd looked at me, like he was searching for something. Or someone.

I needed to act fast.

Over breakfast, he was his usual unreadable self. Calm. Smooth. Powerful. The man could play poker with the devil and win.

He sipped his coffee and glanced at me. "You've been quiet lately."

"I have a lot on my mind," I said, reaching for the toast with trembling fingers.

He tilted his head. "Anything I can help with?"

I shook my head. "It's personal."

He didn't push, but his eyes lingered longer than usual. As if he didn't believe me-and maybe he didn't.

Once he left the house, I moved fast. I grabbed the burner phone I had hidden beneath the floorboard in the closet and sent a single encrypted message.

"I found proof. Vasquez. Jan 2nd. Get to me ASAP."

Then I powered it off, tucked it back in its hiding place, and tried to breathe. My hands were shaking, heart racing like it knew I had crossed a line I couldn't come back from.

Later that afternoon, Maria brought in a sealed envelope. "Someone left this at the gate," she whispered, a trace of concern in her voice. "No name."

I opened it carefully. Inside was a single photo.

My father.

Dead on the ground. Bullet wound to the chest. Blood everywhere.

But that wasn't what made me drop the photo.

It was the man standing in the shadows behind him.

Dante.

Half his face was hidden by the brim of his cap, but I knew that profile. I'd seen it every day for the past few weeks. The curve of his jaw. That scar by his temple.

He'd been there.

My vision blurred. My breath came in shallow bursts. I pressed the photo to my chest, sinking to the floor.

Why would someone send this to me now? Was it a warning?

Or was it Dante himself-testing me?

That evening, I waited for him in the study.

The fire crackled softly. Rain tapped against the windows. I sat curled on the armchair, photo hidden in my book. When he walked in, he looked surprised to see me there.

"You're up late," he said.

"Couldn't sleep."

He walked to the bar and poured himself a drink. "Nightmares?"

I nodded slowly. "About my father."

He froze, just for a second, before lifting the glass to his lips. "I'm sorry."

"No, you're not," I said quietly.

He turned.

"What?"

I stood. My voice was calm, but each word carried the weight of betrayal. "You were there the night he died."

He didn't respond. He didn't deny it either.

"I saw the photo," I said, stepping closer. "You were standing behind him."

His expression darkened, but there was no anger. Only something sadder-like a truth he'd been carrying for too long.

"I didn't pull the trigger," he said finally.

"But you were there."

"Yes."

Tears welled up in my eyes. "Why, Dante? Why were you there that night? Why didn't you save him?"

He looked at the fire, jaw clenched. "Because he asked me to stay away."

"What?"

"He knew someone was coming for him. He called me an hour before. Told me not to interfere. Said it was too dangerous... said it wasn't my fight."

"That's a lie."

"It's the truth," he said firmly. "Your father and I-we had history. Complicated history."

I stared at him, the lines between love and hate blurring faster than I could rebuild them. "You expect me to believe you cared about him?"

"I did," he said, stepping forward. "More than he ever knew."

My heart broke at the calm in his voice. It was easier when I thought he was a monster. Easier to hate him. Easier to stay focused.

But now?

Now I saw something raw in him. Something real.

"He wasn't the man you thought he was, Serena."

"Don't," I said, voice cracking. "Don't try to twist his memory."

He didn't respond. He just reached into his coat and pulled out a worn leather notebook.

He handed it to me.

"What's this?"

"Your father's journal. I kept it all these years. I shouldn't have, but... I thought one day you might want to know the truth."

I opened the cover. Inside was my father's handwriting. Slanted. Bold. Familiar.

The first entry was dated December 10, 2017-three weeks before his death.

"If anything happens to me, it wasn't an accident. And it wasn't Dante Romano."

I nearly dropped the book.

"Keep reading," Dante said quietly.

I looked at him, torn between grief and confusion. "Why now?"

"Because the more you hate me, the more danger you're in. You need to know who really killed your father. And it wasn't me."

Tears spilled over. I turned away, clutching the journal like it was a lifeline.

For the first time, I didn't know what to believe.

All I knew was that I had entered this house to destroy him.

Now I wasn't so sure if he was my enemy...

...or the only person trying to save me from a truth darker than I ever imagined.