60. When Prey Escapes
CHAPTER 60
When Prey Escapes
WREN
Something is wrong.
The second I pull onto the drive, I know it. There's an unmarked black sedan parked beyond the gates. Deep enough to almost disappear, but not quite. Someone wants me to see it.
My fingers tighten on the steering wheel as I drive past, my gaze fixed on the rearview mirror. The car doesn't move. The message is clear. They’re waiting for me.
I take my time parking the car, and walking to the front door, keys spinning around my finger while I catalog the details. Federal vehicle. Positioned to block an exit if needed. Likely an armed agent behind the wheel. This is an intimidation visit, and there’s nothing subtle about it. It’s a warning.
The house is dark when I step inside. Not empty, though. Silence has a particular weight, and I know how this house feels when there’s no one here. I live in that emptiness every single day. Tonight, someone else's presence is changing the atmosphere. I hit the lights and move through the rooms, the sensation of being watched prickling at my skin, drawing me toward the living room.
He’s there.
A man sitting in an immaculate suit sits in one of the armchairs, hands clasped, waiting like he’s done this before. He doesn't move when I enter, doesn't blink, but his stare tracks me.
“You’re trespassing.” I lean against the doorframe.
“From where I’m sitting, this is a courtesy call.” His voice is measured, but edged with steel.
“Who are you?”
He reaches into his coat and pulls out a badge. The flash of it disappears as quickly as it appears. “Agent Miller. FBI. ”
"You've been busy, Mr. Carlisle."
"Have I?" I keep my voice neutral, while tension winds my stomach tight.
“Don’t play dumb.” Miller unfolds himself from the chair. “You’ve been poking around sealed records. Surveillance. Names that are supposed to stay buried.” He pauses, and his gaze locks onto mine. “The Moreno family.”
I hike an eyebrow. “You’re here because of a girl ?”
His smile is thin, devoid of warmth. "We both know it’s more than that. You’re playing a dangerous game." He pauses, letting his words settle. "It stops now."
"Or what?"
"Or we make it stop. Walk away, Wren. Before you get hurt. Before she gets hurt."
The threat worms its way under my skin. "Is that what this is? A warning?"
"Walk away. Stop digging." He steps closer, his gaze unflinching. "You’re not the first person to get too close to the Rossi case. Smart people back off when we tell them to."
"And if I'm not smart?"
His smile disappears. "Then you'll find out exactly how easily people can disappear. Including rich boys who think Daddy's money makes them untouchable."
I bare my teeth in what might pass for a grin. "You think you scare me?"
“This is your one chance. Take it. The Morenos are gone. Moved somewhere you’ll never find them. Just like we moved them sixteen years ago. And if you’re smart, you won’t try."
Gone? The word sends disbelief and rage shooting through me. I keep my expression neutral. "Gone?"
"Clean exit. No trace." His eyes bore into mine. "Let her go. Find someone else to play your games with. Because if you don't? If you keep pushing?" He steps closer, his cologne invading my senses, a sickly-sweet reminder of his power. "Well, there are worse things than disappearing. Just ask Victor Rossi's other associates."
His footsteps echo against the hardwood as he moves past me. At the front door, he pauses, looking back. The door closes with a soft click.
She’s gone?
I’m moving before the thought fully forms, keys in hand, slamming out the door. The black sedan is gone when I reach the gates, but I don’t care. My mind is already racing, calculating possibilities, planning moves and countermoves.
The drive to her apartment passes in a haze of streetlights and fast turns. I’m running on adrenaline, the need to see her, to prove Miller wrong, burning through me like wildfire. The apartment building is dark when I pull up. The bad feeling in my gut gets worse, but I shove it down.
The window opens easily. Too easily. No point in changing the locks on an empty apartment. I go inside, my feet making no sound on the floorboards. But there’s no girl asleep in her bed. No beautiful, invisible dancer fading into the shadows.
The room is bare, stripped of personal items, mattress gone, everything that made it hers erased. Blank walls where her posters used to hang. Nails jutting out where curtains used to sway in the breeze.
The living room is empty too. Everything is gone … There’s nothing left.
Except for two black roses.
They lie crumpled near the wall, their petals dry, brittle, and curling inward.
And beside them … the ballet shoes. The ones I gave her.
I drop to my knees, my breath stuck somewhere in my chest as I pick them up. They’re ruined now. Torn satin, mud-streaked soles, holes where they caught on the undergrowth. Reminders of the woods. Of that night.
The night I chased her. The night I thought I could break her walls and make her mine. I see it all again. Her face pale and frightened. The sound of her voice breaking.
And now this . An empty room and broken shoes.
My hand shakes as I hold them.
This is what I did.
I destroyed something beautiful. I gave her the tools to dance, and then I tore it all apart. My fingers curl into fists, nails biting into my palms. I’m responsible for this. My need to possess her, to own her secrets, to control her life. My obsession. My madness. It’s driven her back into the shadows I worked so hard to break her free from.
The irony burns in my throat. In trying to make her mine, I’ve made her disappear more completely than her father ever could.
They think this is over. That they can erase her. They think they can make her fade away again?
But I’ve seen her. I’ve seen the way she burns. The way she exists . They can’t erase that, no matter how much they try.
Fury bubbles up, hot and fierce, but it’s different now. It’s not just possessive rage, it’s something deeper. Something that tastes like regret and burns like guilt.
My grip tightens on the ruined shoes.
Let them think they’ve won. Let them think I’ll stop. They don’t know me. And they sure as hell don’t know her.
She isn’t Ileana Moreno, the Ghost Girl. She is Isabella Rossi, heir to an empire that burned.
I won’t let her fade away.
Not when she deserves more. Not when she deserves to dance in the light, to be seen, to be known.
I rise, the shoes in one hand, the roses crumbling in the other. The apartment door slams behind me with enough force to rattle the windows.
They’ll learn.
Nobody can force her back into darkness.
Not even me.
And not while I’m still standing.