Page 48 of Marrying His Son’s Ex (Forbidden Kings #3)

ALARIC

“Our Chicago operations are yielding better results than expected,” I tell Agent Morrison through the secure line. “Three more trafficking rings identified, at least forty girls we can potentially rescue within the next?—”

A scream cuts through the house like a knife.

High-pitched, terrified, completely primal. The phone slips from my hand as I bolt from my desk chair, leaving Morrison’s voice echoing from the speaker.

“Kasimira!”

I sprint through the hallway toward the library, my heart hammering against my ribs. That scream came from someone who has seen their worst nightmare made real.

The library door stands wide open, afternoon sunlight streaming through tall windows onto scattered papers. Klaus’s German pregnancy book lies splayed face-down on the Persian rug, its heavy pages bent from the fall.

“Kasi!”

I find her huddled behind the massive oak desk, arms wrapped protectively around her growing belly, shaking so violently her teeth chatter. Her face is white as paper, eyes wide with the kind of terror that comes from seeing the impossible.

“Hey.” I drop to my knees beside her, holstering the weapon I’d drawn instinctively. “I’m here. What happened?”

“He’s back,” she whispers, the words barely audible through her chattering teeth. “Alaric, he’s back.”

“Who’s back?”

“Dante. I saw him. Standing right there in the doorway, smiling at me.”

Cold settles in my veins. Dante?

“Sweetheart, that’s impossible,” I tell her. “Dante is dead.”

“I smelled his cologne first—that bergamot and cedar scent he always wore. Then I looked up and he was just standing there like nothing had changed.”

“Are you absolutely certain? Could it have been someone else, someone who?—”

“He spoke to me. Called me princess. Asked if I missed him.” Her voice cracks. “It was him, Alaric. Thinner, with scars on his face, but definitely him.”

“Boss!” Benedetto’s voice echoes from the hallway as running footsteps approach. “We heard screaming.”

“In here. Secure the house. Full lockdown until we know what we’re dealing with.”

I help Kasimira to her feet, keeping one arm around her trembling frame as Benedetto enters with two security guards. She leans against me like her legs might give out at any moment.

“Ma’am,” Benedetto addresses her gently. “Can you describe exactly what you saw?”

“Dante Moretti. Standing in that doorway.” She points with a shaking finger. “He looked directly at me and smiled.”

“Did he say anything else? Make any threats?”

“Just asked if I missed him. He told me about the crash. It looks like he was rescued. Then I screamed and he…disappeared.”

Benedetto exchanges a look with me. If Kasimira says she saw Dante, then she saw someone.

“Check the security footage,” I order. “Everything from the past two hours. And sweep every inch of this house.”

“Okay, boss.”

That’s when I notice the rose.

A single red rose lies on the library table beside Kasimira’s reading spot, its stem cut precisely, petals perfect and blood-red. It wasn’t there this morning when I kissed her goodbye. It wasn’t there an hour ago when I brought her fresh tea.

Someone placed it there recently. Someone who knows exactly what red roses mean to this family.

“Jesus Christ,” I breathe, pointing to the flower.

Benedetto follows my gaze and his expression darkens immediately. “Dante’s calling card.”

“He used to leave those for his victims,” I explain to the security guards. “Every woman he stalked received red roses before he escalated.”

“But sir, how could he?—”

“I don’t know how. I just know my wife doesn’t hallucinate, and she damn sure doesn’t leave herself red roses.”

“Boss.” One of the guards approaches with his radio crackling. “Security command needs you in the monitoring room. Says it’s urgent.”

The monitoring room occupies an entire floor of the estate’s east wing, banks of screens showing feeds from over a hundred cameras positioned throughout the grounds and building.

Christian, our head of security, who replaced Tommy Russo, sits in front of the computer terminal with sweat beading on his forehead.

“Show me,” I demand without preamble.

“Sir, I’ve been reviewing footage from the past four hours, and…” He clicks through camera feeds with shaking hands. “Library feed, 2:47 p.m. Watch the doorway.”

The screen shows Kasimira reading peacefully in her chair, the German book balanced on her belly. The time stamp reads 2:47:33 when a shadow falls across the doorway.

Then a figure steps into frame.

My blood stops flowing entirely.

Dante. Unmistakably Dante, though changed by whatever he’s survived.

Thinner, with visible scarring on the left side of his face, but absolutely my son.

He stands in the doorway for thirty- seven seconds, watching Kasimira read, that same predatory smile I remember from his childhood when he was planning mischief.

At 2:48:10, Kasimira looks up. Her face transforms from peaceful concentration to absolute horror in the space of a heartbeat.

She screams, the book tumbling from her hands as Dante steps fully into the library and approaches her chair.

For the next four minutes, we watch him speak to her while she becomes increasingly terrified, scrambling behind the desk during their conversation.

He places what appears to be the rose on her reading table before exiting toward the east corridor.

“Where does he go after that?” I ask through gritted teeth.

“That’s the problem, sir. He enters the east stairwell, but the cameras on floors two and three were malfunctioning during that exact time frame. He disappears completely from our coverage.”

“How did none of you catch this in real time?”

The three security technicians exchange uncomfortable glances.

Christian finally speaks up. “This estate employs over forty people across three shifts. During afternoon hours, we have twenty-plus people moving through the building. He was wearing work clothes and a maintenance cap—looked like any other contractor.”

“You’re all fired,” I say flatly.

Benedetto leans close to my ear. “Boss, we can’t trust anyone new right now. Better to keep them on probation—we know their faces, their weaknesses. New people could be plants.”

He’s right. In times like this, the devil you know is safer than strangers.

“Leave,” I tell the technicians. “All of you. Go home and wait for my call. Don’t come back until I summon you.”

They file out silently, leaving Benedetto and me alone with the monitors.

“I’ll take over security monitoring personally,” Benedetto says, settling into Christian’s chair.

“Good. I want every camera angle reviewed for the past month. If Dante’s been on this property before today, I need to know when and how often.”

“Done.”

“And double the security detail around Kasimira. Armed guards, twenty-four-hour rotation, someone with her at all times.”

“What about you?”

“I’m going to find out how my dead son came back to life.”

The next three days pass in a blur of phone calls, investigations, and mounting paranoia.

The crash was real. The plane went down exactly as reported, scattered across two miles of Nevada desert. But the bodies were never conclusively identified due to the intensity of the fire.

Which means Dante could have survived.

Which means he’s been hiding for months, planning his return, watching us rebuild our lives while he prepared to destroy them again.

Kasimira jumps at every shadow, refuses to be alone in any room, and sleeps fitfully even with guards posted outside our bedroom door.

“Any leads?” she asks on the third morning, dark circles under her eyes testimony to sleepless nights.

“The forensic team is re-examining evidence from the crash site. If Dante survived, there should be traces of blood, DNA, and some indication of how he escaped.”

“And if there aren’t?”

“Then someone is playing a very sophisticated game, using an elaborate Dante impersonator to drive us insane.”

“Which would you prefer?”

I consider the question seriously. An impersonator could be caught, identified, and finished off with conventional methods. But Dante himself, alive and planning revenge, represents a threat I’m not sure how to neutralize.

“I honestly don’t know.”

The call comes on the fourth day. The private investigator’s voice is cautious as he delivers news that might confirm my worst fears.

“I’ve been asking questions around the crash site, talking to locals who might have seen something,” he reports. “Found a few things that don’t add up, but I could be wrong about what they mean.”

“What kind of things?”

“There’s a small village about fifteen miles from the crash site. Local clinic treated a man who stumbled in three days after the accident—severe burns, head trauma, no identification. He disappeared before they could get proper medical records.”

“Description?”

“Matches your son’s general build and age, but the injuries made positive identification impossible. It could have been anyone. Hiker, vagrant, another crash victim from a different incident.”

“Anything else?”

“Not yet.”

I look across the room at Kasimira, who’s pretending to read baby name books while actually listening to every word of my conversation.

“Keep investigating,” I tell him.