The halls of New York Presbyterian still lingered in her mind long after Anastasia left them. The sterile scent of antiseptic, the soft murmur of machines, and the fragile breath of her mother's recovery clung to her like shadows. As she sat in the sleek black interior of Dante's car, her eyes occasionally flicked to the rearview mirror, watching the hospital fade into the bustling cityscape. The weight of her mother's words replayed in her head.
"Give the blueprint to Dante."
But how could she? How could she hand over something that had been entrusted to her with solemn warnings by her father? Trusting Dante was like trusting a blade not to cut. Dangerous, unpredictable, and sharp.
Dante sat beside her, legs crossed and gaze fixed on his phone, radiating that usual cold detachment he wore like an armor. The silence in the car was heavy, only broken by the faint hum of the engine and the occasional vibration from Dante's messages.
