The sun streamed through the large windows of Dante’s mansion, illuminating the spacious living room where Amara played with her blocks. Isla sat nearby on the couch, flipping through a book while keeping a watchful eye on her daughter. Things had been tense since their visit to Vincent, but she was determined to create some semblance of normalcy for Amara.
Dante entered the room, his presence commanding as always. He paused, taking in the scene of his wife and daughter, a faint smile tugging at his lips. For a brief moment, everything felt calm.
“Amara,” he called softly, crouching down to her level. “What are you building there, little one?”
Amara looked up with a wide grin, her dark curls bouncing. “Castle!” she announced proudly.
Dante chuckled and reached out to adjust one of the precariously balanced blocks. “A castle fit for a princess, huh? Just like you.”
Isla watched the interaction, her heart warming at the sight. Dante had been more present recently, trying to make up for his father’s unsettling influence on their lives. But the unease still lingered, a shadow they couldn’t escape.
—
A few hours later, the mansion buzzed with activity. Dante had called in his team for an emergency meeting, leaving Isla and Amara to their own devices.
Amara toddled off toward the hallway, her stuffed rabbit clutched tightly in one hand. Isla followed at a distance, letting her daughter explore but ensuring she didn’t wander too far. The mansion was vast, with countless rooms and hallways that seemed to stretch endlessly.
“Stay where I can see you, sweetheart,” Isla called, her voice echoing.
Amara giggled and turned a corner, disappearing from sight. Isla quickened her pace, her heart skipping a beat.
“Amara?” she called again, this time with a hint of worry.
There was no response. Isla’s chest tightened as she began searching each room, her panic growing with every empty space she encountered.
—
Meanwhile, in the study, Vincent sat calmly in a leather armchair, sipping a glass of brandy. His visit had been unannounced, as usual. Dante stood across from him, arms crossed, his expression a mix of frustration and barely contained anger.
“You have no right to come here uninvited,” Dante growled.
Vincent smirked, setting his glass down on the side table. “You act as though I’m a stranger, Dante. I’m your father. And I wanted to see how my granddaughter is doing.”
“She’s none of your concern,” Dante snapped. “Stay away from her.”
Vincent’s eyes glinted with amusement. “Relax, son. I merely wanted to observe. She’s a Moretti, after all.”
Before Dante could respond, Isla burst into the room, her face pale and eyes wide with fear.
“Dante! Amara-she’s gone!”
Dante’s blood ran cold. He immediately moved toward Isla, gripping her shoulders. “What do you mean, gone? Where did you last see her?”
“She was playing in the hallway,” Isla said, her voice trembling. “I turned for a second, and when I looked back, she wasn’t there!”
Vincent stood, his expression unreadable. “Perhaps she’s exploring. Children do tend to wander.”
Dante shot him a glare. “Stay out of this.”
Ignoring his father, Dante took Isla’s hand and led her out of the room. “We’ll find her,” he assured her, though his voice carried a tinge of desperation.
—
They searched every corner of the mansion, calling out Amara’s name. Isla’s anxiety grew with each passing minute, tears threatening to spill as the silence stretched on.
Finally, they reached the garden, where Dante froze at the sound of soft laughter. He followed the sound, his jaw tightening as he recognized the voice accompanying it.
There, under the shade of a large oak tree, sat Vincent. Amara was perched on his lap, her rabbit in one hand and a small cookie in the other.
“Amara!” Isla cried, rushing forward. She snatched her daughter from Vincent’s arms, holding her close as relief and anger surged through her.
“Mommy!” Amara exclaimed, seemingly oblivious to the tension around her.
Dante stepped forward, his eyes blazing. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Father?”
Vincent remained seated, completely unfazed. “Calm down, Dante. The little one wandered into my study. I simply entertained her while you were busy panicking.”
“You had no right,” Isla snapped, her voice trembling with fury. “She’s not your plaything.”
Vincent rose slowly, brushing imaginary dust from his suit. “She’s my granddaughter. Surely, spending a few moments with her isn’t a crime.”
Dante moved to block him, his towering figure radiating menace. “If you so much as look at her again without my permission, I swear-”
“Careful, son,” Vincent interrupted smoothly. “Threatening me won’t end well for you or your little family.”
The subtle threat hung in the air, chilling Isla to the bone.
—
Back inside the mansion, Isla cradled Amara in her arms, refusing to let her out of sight. Dante paced the living room, his frustration palpable.
“I should’ve thrown him out the moment he arrived,” Dante muttered.
“Why didn’t you?” Isla asked, her voice sharper than intended. “You know he’s dangerous. Why do you keep letting him into our lives?”
Dante stopped pacing, running a hand through his hair. “Because it’s not that simple. Cutting ties with him… it’s not just about me. It’s about protecting you and Amara. If I push him too far, he’ll retaliate.”
“Retaliate how?” Isla pressed, her eyes narrowing.
“You don’t want to know,” Dante said, his voice low.
Isla shook her head, tears pooling in her eyes. “I can’t live like this, Dante. Constantly looking over my shoulder, wondering when he’s going to strike.”
Dante crossed the room and knelt before her, placing a hand on her knee. “I swear to you, Isla, I’ll find a way to end this. I’ll make sure he can’t hurt us.”
“How?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
“I don’t know yet,” Dante admitted. “But I’ll figure it out. For you. For Amara.”
—
That night, after Amara was safely tucked into bed, Isla sat by the window, staring out at the moonlit garden. She couldn’t shake the image of Vincent holding her daughter, his expression cold and calculating.
Dante joined her, his presence grounding yet tinged with the same unease she felt.
“He won’t stop, will he?” Isla asked softly.
Dante sighed, leaning against the window frame. “No. Not until he gets what he wants.”
“And what does he want?”
Dante looked at her, his eyes filled with a mix of sorrow and determination. “Control. Over me, over you, over Amara. He’s always wanted to control everything.”
Isla reached for his hand, gripping it tightly. “Then we fight him. Together.”
Dante’s gaze softened, and he leaned down to press a gentle kiss to her forehead. “Together,” he echoed.
But in the back of both their minds, they knew that fighting Vincent Moretti would be a battle unlike any they’d faced before.