THE PHONE IN THE STUDY

The study doors opened without anyone touching them from inside.

One of Dante’s security men entered first, tall and silent in a black suit dampened by rain. Another followed. Neither rushed. Neither shouted. Their calm made Charles step back instinctively before pride could stop him.

Then Dante Moretti walked in.

He was forty, dark-haired, clean-shaven, and dressed in a black suit that looked less like fashion than armor. Rain glistened on his shoulders. His eyes moved once around the room, taking in the blood on Isabella’s bandage, the red mark on her cheek, the documents on the desk, Charles near her chair, Victoria too close, the cousins suddenly silent in the hallway.

When his gaze settled on Isabella, the severity in his face changed—not softening exactly, but sharpening around concern.

“Can you stand?” he asked.

No greeting. No drama. Just the only question that mattered.

Isabella swallowed. “I think so.”

Charles found his voice. “Mr. Moretti, this is a private family matter.”

Dante did not look at him. “No.”

The single word ended the sentence more effectively than an argument.

Victoria stepped forward, trying charm because fear had not yet humbled her completely. “I’m afraid Isabella is distressed. She injured herself, made a confused phone call, and—”

Dante turned to her.

Victoria stopped speaking.

It was not that he threatened her. He simply looked as though every lie she might tell had already been weighed and found boring.

Dante’s attorney entered behind him, a compact woman in a gray coat carrying a sealed folder. “Mr. Whitmore,” she said, “you are ordered not to remove, alter, or destroy any Crane estate documents pending emergency review.”

Charles’s face drained. “Ordered by whom?”

She handed him the paper.

His eyes moved over it. Rain beat against the windows. No one else breathed loudly.

Dante crossed to Isabella. He did not touch her without permission. He crouched in front of her, close enough that she could see the rain on his lashes.

“You called,” he said.

Her composure broke.

Not loudly. Just a shudder through her shoulders, a tear slipping down the cheek Victoria had struck.

“I didn’t know who else would come.”

Dante’s jaw tightened.

Behind him, Charles recovered enough to sneer. “You have no idea what you’ve invited into this house.”

Isabella looked past Dante at her uncle.

For years, she had been afraid of what Charles could do behind closed doors. Tonight, the doors were open, and his power looked smaller beneath another man’s shadow.

Dante stood.

“I know exactly what she invited,” he said. “A witness.”

Charles laughed bitterly. “You think being feared makes you lawful?”

Dante’s attorney answered before he could. “No. The court order does. The security footage does. The medical evidence will. And the sealed letter from Thomas Crane will make this very difficult for you.”

At the mention of the letter, Victoria’s face turned white.