C85 Like Mother, Like Daughter

Dante stepped out of the hospital’s main entrance with the fluorescent lights flickering faintly above the sliding doors.

His long strides carried him to the edge of the parking lot where the darkness pressed closer, swallowing the edges of the world in quiet menace.

The night air was crisp, carrying with it the faint tang of antiseptic from the hospital and the distant hum of city life.

He pulled his phone from his pocket just as it buzzed, Angelo’s name flashing across the screen.

The conversation was quick but left a heavyweight pressing against his chest.

“They went for the corporate side,” Angelo’s voice was calm, clipped. Efficient. “Guards on duty were taken out. They got in, did their damage, and left chaos in their wake. Your office took the brunt, boss. The fire alarm brought the cops almost immediately. The fire is out now, and we’ve got people on site with the cops.”

Dante’s jaw tightened.

His free hand curled into a fist as his thumb absently brushed against the weight of his ring. “Casualties?”

“Just the guards. There was no staff in the building at the time. They timed it too perfectly for it to be anything but calculated.” Angelo hesitated, then added, “You don’t need to rush back. We’ve got this handled.”

The line clicked dead, leaving Dante standing there, staring at his phone as though the silence on the other end might offer answers.

He wanted to smash the device, but he stopped himself.

It wasn’t just about the attack.

It was about the legacy his father had handed down to him.

The legacy he had painstakingly built and fiercely defended.

Now scarred by flames and shattered glass.

He exhaled slowly.

Then he watched unseeing as his breath curled into the cold night air like smoke.

His mind was far from that hospital at the moment, but his heart couldn’t keep away from the woman in the building.

His gaze turned back to the hospital, and he looked in the direction of the place where Annabelle was sitting at her mother’s bedside.

For once in his life, Dante Cazador hesitated.

The choice wasn’t simple.

His instincts screamed for action.

He wanted to race back to the site of the attack and take command.

He needed to show his men, and whoever would be watching from the shadows, strength in the face of provocation.

But then there was Annabelle.

He remembered her eyes, red-rimmed with tears and trembling voice as she spoke about her mother.

He could almost hear her again, pleading to stay with her for just a little longer.

The decision was made before he realized it.

Dante turned back toward the hospital.

The room where Annabelle’s mother had been moved was a stark contrast to the rest of the hospital.

The upgraded suite was bathed in soft, muted tones.

Beige walls, pale blue accents, and warm lighting that tried, but failed, to make the space feel less clinical was a welcome difference from the room she was in earlier.

Annabelle sat by the bed, her posture rigid, her back to the door.

Her long, chestnut hair was pulled into a loose braid, tendrils falling messily around her face. She was wearing a simple grey sweater with the sleeves pulled down over her hands as though she could shield herself from the world.

The tears on her cheeks caught the light, glistening like tiny rivers against her pale skin.

Dante lingered in the doorway for a moment, his presence heavy even in silence.

“She’s not a bad person,” Annabelle said suddenly, her voice startling him.

She didn’t turn around, but he saw her shoulders tremble slightly. “Her only crime was trusting the wrong men.”

Dante stepped closer, his boots thudding softly against the tiled floor.

“She depended on them,” Annabelle continued, her voice growing quieter, almost inaudible. “And when they showed their true colours, she was left... broken. Over and over again.”

Her hand brushed the edge of the bed, and she trembled as she adjusted the blanket covering her mother.

The older woman lay still.

Her face was drawn and pale, as though she was tired of struggling as life got drained out of her.

“Annabelle,” Dante started, his voice low, steady.

She didn’t let him finish.

“Like mother, like daughter,” she murmured, the words so soft they were barely a whisper.

The weight of her confession hit him like a punch to the gut.

Annabelle finally turned.

Her face was a storm of emotions.

Her red and swollen eyes locked onto his.

Dante stepped closer, his hand instinctively reaching out.

He wanted to comfort her and to erase the agony etched into her features, but she stepped back, shaking her head.

“No.” Her voice was sharp now, a blade cutting through the tension between them. “I’m not going to make her mistakes.”

Dante’s hand froze midair, then slowly dropped to his side.

He clenched his jaw, his expression unreadable as he watched her struggle to maintain her composure.

“Annabelle,” he began again, softer this time. “You’re nothing like her. You…”

“Don’t.” She cut him off, her voice trembling but resolute. “Don’t try to make me feel better. I don’t need that. I need... I need you to leave.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and final.

Dante’s chest tightened, but his expression didn’t waver. “I’m not leaving you like this.”

Annabelle laughed bitterly, brushing a stray tear from her cheek. “Of course, you’re not. Because that’s what you do, isn’t it? You don’t let go. You don’t back down. You…” She stopped, biting her lip hard enough to draw blood.

Her voice softened, losing its sharp edges. “Please, Dante. Just... go.”

The raw vulnerability in her tone sliced through his defences, but he didn’t move.

His eyes, dark and intense, searched hers, looking for some sign that she didn’t mean it.

That she wanted him to stay despite her words.

But all he saw was resolve.

The air between them crackled with unspoken tension, the kind that pulled at something deep and primal in both of them.

Dante took a step back, his movements deliberate, and controlled.

“Fine,” he said, his voice cold now, betraying none of the turmoil roiling inside him.

He turned on his heel and walked to the door, each step feeling heavier than the last.

As he reached the threshold, he paused, his hand resting on the frame.

Without turning around, he said, “I will be leaving some of my men here with you though,”

When she opened her mouth to protest, he beat her to it and said, “If you think I will allow you to expose yourself to danger, then you have lost your damn beautiful mind.”

She looked like she had plenty to say, but she swallowed them.

He saw a mixture of confusion, anger and misery on her face, and he wished he could make her realise that he was nothing like her father or stepfather.

But then he knew that was something she had to realise herself.

“If you need me, you know where to find me.”

And then he was gone, the door clicking softly shut behind him.

Outside, the cold night air hit him like a slap.

Then one of his men approached, holding up a phone with a live stream of the attack site.

Dante glanced at the screen, his face impassive as images of the burning building flashed across it.

Reporters buzzed around like flies, their voices frantic as they described the destruction.

“Should we head back, sir?” the man asked hesitantly.

Dante didn’t answer immediately.

He stared at the screen for a moment longer, then shook his head.

“Not yet,” he said finally, his voice hard. “Let Angelo handle it.”

He signalled his driver out and slipped into his car.

The leather creaked under his weight as he gripped the steering wheel tightly.

His knuckles turned white, but he didn’t start the engine.

Instead, he sat there, staring at the hospital entrance as the faint glow of the lights cast long shadows on the pavement.

Annabelle’s words echoed in his mind, each one cutting deeper than the last.

He knew her fears and the reason for pushing him away.

Maybe he even understood them.

But understanding didn’t make it any easier.

He was damn tired of being compared to assholes in her life.

He fucking hated it.