DANTE POV
Dante did not sleep. Not really. Sleep was for people without ghosts.
He spent the night in his penthouse, lights low, city shadows playing across the walls. Every flicker reminded him of her — the way she disappeared, the echo of her voice, her silence. The kind that punished you.
Dante did not sleep. Not really. Sleep was for people without ghosts.
In the stillness of his penthouse, beneath the soft hum of the city far below, Dante sat surrounded by the memories he never shared. The world saw him as the blade of the Pact — sharp, cold, untouchable. But here, within these walls, he allowed himself to bleed.
His study had a locked drawer crafted from black walnut and fitted with a fingerprint lock only he could open. Inside: a stack of printed photos — candid, grainy, sacred. Some were from the early days: Sabrina laughing with a coffee cup, hair unbrushed, barefoot in the training compound. Others were stills from security footage he shouldn't have kept — her boarding planes, disappearing into hotel lobbies, walking through city streets under aliases she thought no one knew.
And then there were the videos. Short, raw clips stored on an encrypted drive: her sparring, dancing alone when she thought no one was watching, at times reading romance novels. He knew the novels were sexual due to how she kept turning red and touching her body. He just wondered who she thought of at that time. Was he ever in her mind? Not as a pact brother but as a man?
He'd written letters too — dozens. Some angry, others gentle. Apologies, confessions, promises. All are sealed and dated. None sent.
A leather-bound journal lay in his closet, buried in an old shoebox. It was the only place Dante ever admitted the truth — that he had loved her first, had wanted her only for himself. That night, everything shattered; a part of him did, too. That the deepest cut wasn't just what they did, but that she never looked at him the same after.
And that he missed her. Every day. Every goddamn hour.
No one knew.
Not Leo, not Malik, not even Zay.
Let them think he was driven by honor, justice, and guilt. Let them believe this was about righting a wrong.
But in the quiet, when the city slept, and her name still echoed in his chest, Dante Vale knew the truth:
He was still hers.
And he would burn the world to find her again.
By sunrise, he moved with purpose.
With an encrypted phone, he made the call to Leo first. Always Leo.
"She's here," Dante said without preamble.
"Confirmation?"
"Instinct."
"That's enough."
Next was Zayden—Zay to everyone who knew him. Cool-headed, strategic, and ruthless when necessary.
"I need your place. This weekend. Mountain house."
"Agenda Sab?"
"Yeah."
"Done."
Last was Malik, currently on-site in the Congo, finalizing a military contract no one dared question.
"You pulling me out mid-deal?" Malik's voice was half amusement, half warning.
"She's alive. She's here."
A beat.
"I'll be there Friday."
The Pact was reawakening. Their fortress was Zay's mountain residence—remote, shielded by nature and tech alike. It had satellite scramblers, biometric locks, and armed staff loyal to the grave—a place built for war or reconciliation.
And they'd need both.
Dante stood at the penthouse window, watching the sunrise bleed into the horizon.
"This time," he muttered, "we bring her back. Or burn everything trying."
SABRINA POV
The Brisbane skyline glittered beneath her as she stood alone, barely breathing. Every nerve told her the same thing: she'd been seen.
Not confirmed. But sensed.
Dante's instincts were sharper than most people's logic. And if he'd felt her presence, even for a moment — the net was already forming.
She looked toward the adjoining suite. Her twins — two and a half, her heart and soul — were tucked safely under silk covers, watched by guards who'd sworn their loyalty in blood and fire.
But no wall could protect her from memory.
The letter still lay in her purse, unread. Its presence burned. She couldn't open it — not yet. Not when she knew what it would confirm. Who had betrayed her? Who had taken everything?
"They won't stop," she whispered, pacing the room. "Not until they see me. Not until they ask their questions. But this time, I ask mine."
She couldn't risk the penthouse anymore. Too exposed.
She hit speed dial.
"Activate the farmhouse. Full lockdown."
"Understood. Relocation window?"
"One hour."
"We'll be waiting."
The farmhouse was more than a retreat — it was a fortress masked as tranquility. Perimeter drones, underground panic vaults, ex-military staff running silent protocols. If she faced them, she'd do it on her terms.
As she began packing, she paused at the mirror. Her reflection stared back — fierce, haunted, and unshakable.
"You wanted to find me?" she whispered to the night.
"Then come."