Dante:
We rushed through the winding streets toward Alessia's sprawling mansion, the wheels barely skimming the asphalt because she was the only suspect that made sense, the only one who carried enough venom toward Danna to act without conscience, and as soon as Jake stepped through the heavy double doors with me right behind him, a voice, smooth yet dripping with something I'd learned to despise, slid into my ears and froze my steps—"Oh, welcome, Dante"—and there she was, Alessia's mother, Mrs. Lucia Wilson, standing like a queen who believed the entire room existed for her, dressed in a luxurious, short, pinkish silk that clung to her surgically refined frame, her beauty a calculated effort of money and vanity, moving toward me with a sway in her hips and a practiced smile that carried the same dangerous charm I'd seen in her daughter, her manicured fingers brushing my arm as she purred, "How are you? I missed you a lot," and though every instinct told me to remain stoic, I took in a deep breath, removed her hand from me with measured control, and said flatly, "Not your business," before turning to leave, but she caught my arm again, nails digging just enough to spark the irritation already simmering under my skin, and with that perfect mask still on her face she dared to ask, "Why not my daughter?" to which I answered, my voice low and sharp like the edge of a knife, "Mrs. Wilson, I have no interest in her and you can't force me to do something I don't like," yanking my arm free before striding away with my gaze scanning the opulent hall for any sign of trouble, until George's maid approached, bowing slightly and greeting me with a soft, "Mr. Dante, good morning," to which I gave only a curt nod before asking the only thing I cared to know, "Where is Alessia?" and she replied without hesitation, "She is upstairs in her room."
I gave the maid a short nod and started toward the staircase, but my steps faltered to an abrupt stop as my eyes landed on a sight that slammed into me harder than any punch I'd ever taken—there, in the grand hallway bathed in soft afternoon light, stood Danna and George, she still in her wedding dress that floated around her like something fragile and untouchable, her smile gentle, sweet, the kind of smile that could strip me bare without even trying, and her voice, soft yet sure, carried across the space as she said, "Dante must be worried sick, I should go to him," before George leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead, the simple gesture punching straight through my chest with a sharp pang of jealousy that I couldn't disguise no matter how hard I tried, my mind screaming at me—what the hell was she doing—yet my body rooted to the spot, and then George murmured, "Take care…" just as she turned and caught sight of me, her eyes widening in shock before she rushed forward, her arms wrapping around me with a sudden warmth that made my heartbeat stutter and everything else blur away for a moment until she pulled back, her gaze searching my face, but before I could speak George strolled toward me, smiling with the kind of calm arrogance only a man certain of his place could wear, and said, "Dante, how have you been?" to which I replied automatically, "Good," a single clipped word that drew a laugh from him—"Always one-word answers,"—before he casually draped an arm around Danna, the sight making my jaw tighten as he looked me dead in the eye and said, "Keep my daughter happy, and if I hear one single complaint, I will kill you," the words slamming into me like ice water as my eyes widened and my brow furrowed in disbelief, "Daughter?" I echoed, only for Danna to nod with a bright, almost oblivious smile and say as though it were the simplest truth in the world, "Yes, he is my dad."
Danna:
We had explained everything to Dante, the three of us sinking into the couch with a heavy silence between each word, his gaze still clouded with disbelief as he finally asked, "And her mother hid her from you—why?" the question hanging in the air like smoke until Dad—George—rubbed his jaw and muttered, "That's the question," and I found myself speaking before I could think, "I guess there must be a reason?" which made both men turn their eyes to me, Dad giving a slow nod as if he, too, wasn't sure of the truth, murmuring, "Could be," before Dante's voice cut in sharp and direct, "Where is she now?" and I exhaled, unsure how to phrase the answer until Dad said it flatly, "She is dead," but Dante didn't even blink, just leaned forward slightly and asked with unnerving calm, "And you believe that?" making both of us glance at him in confusion, my voice small as I asked, "What do you mean?" only for his eyes to lock on mine as he said, "She lied about you and your sister dying, then lied that your father died, and now she's supposedly dead herself—did you actually see her corpse, did you confirm her death?" and the weight of his logic struck me like a cold wind, pulling my curiosity into something sharper, and Dad's voice faltered as he said, "I saw her body… we were divorced, so I didn't—" but Dante cut in smoothly, "Specify her death?" and Dad gave a reluctant nod; I leaned forward, my tone softer now, "Dad… are you sure she died?" and he crossed one leg over the other, his expression unreadable as he admitted, "Danna, I may not be sure… I never visited her funeral because I had work to look after," and my eyes widened as a strange, undeniable feeling coiled in my chest—deep down, I knew, I felt it—Mom was still alive, somewhere in the world, and then Dante's voice broke through my spiraling thoughts, "Mr. Wilson, any idea where she went after your divorce?" to which Dad replied without hesitation, "I saw her in Poland with a new guy," and the word echoed in my mind like a key turning in a lock—"Poland…" I repeated under my breath, and Dad only nodded.
"We should go to Poland then," I blurted out before I could overthink it, my voice carrying more determination than I intended, but Dad immediately shook his head with a grim look, saying, "Possibly not, I have many foes," and before I could argue, Dante spoke with quiet certainty, "Then me and Danna will," which made my pulse skip just as Dad smirked and said, "Yeah sure, would be perfect for your honeymoon," the teasing sinking into my skin like heat as Dante cleared his throat and I instinctively looked away, hiding the sudden rush of redness in my cheeks, but Dad only chuckled, "Gosh, kids nowadays, why are you shy? Aren't you guys married?" his tone hovering between seriousness and humor while I wished the floor would swallow me whole, and Dante, without reacting to the remark, rose to his feet with a calm, "We should go now," prompting me to stand too, Dad following, but before we could head out he stopped us with a warm, insistent smile, "Why not stay here tonight? I'll arrange a room for you two," and I found myself smiling back at him before glancing toward Dante, whose unreadable expression held mine for a moment until he finally said, "Sure," his gaze steady as it met mine, making my heart beat far too fast for comfort.