Twisted Throne

Chapter 4

Lyra

"Why?" The question leaves my lips before I can stop it. "Why would my father want Cassian dead?"

The thought refuses to make sense. The file Dante placed in front of me has already dismantled the image I’ve spent my entire life believing about father, but this is different.

Corruption is one thing; ordering the death of a child is another.

Dante doesn't answer. He returns to his desk, picking up a small black remote. A soft mechanical hum fills the room as a large screen glides smoothly from the wall, flickering to life to reveal a nursery. Soft afternoon sunlight spills through the windows, bathing scattered toys and a thick cream rug in a warm glow.

In the middle of it all sits Cassian, completely engrossed in balancing colorful wooden blocks. His tiny tongue peeks from the corner of his mouth in deep concentration.

He carefully places a yellow block at the very top of his unstable tower, holding his breath. When it stays, his little face lights up with absolute triumph. He proudly points at it, babbling happily to the nanny, who applauds and cheers for him.

The praise delights him so much he claps his hands, loses his balance, and topples backward onto the plush cream rug. He doesn't cry. Instead, he rolls over with a giggle, crawls on his hands and knees toward a floppy-eared stuffed rabbit, and pulls it into a fierce, chubby-armed hug.

He isn't just a photograph anymore. He's a living, breathing little boy.

Slowly, I turn my head to look at Dante. "You've been watching him?"

"Every hour of every day," he replies, his eyes never leaving the monitor.

"That's not protection," I whisper, a chill running down my spine. "That's obsession."

"He's alive because I'm obsessed." His voice is flat, devoid of defense, stating it as an undeniable fact of his existence.

Before I can process the weight of his words, the screen suddenly splits. On the other half of the display, rain lashes relentlessly against the entrance of a towering, sleek stone building.

Headlights pierce the downpour as a black SUV glides through the back gate, rolling to a smooth stop near the service entrance.

The driver's door opens. A man dressed entirely in tactical black gear, boots, and a ski mask climbs out. Then another. Then two more. Four men in perfect, disciplined formation move toward the building with quiet efficiency.

My stomach violently contracts. "What is this? Dante, what is this?"

Dante's hand rises to a sleek black earpiece tucked into his collar.

"Alpha," he commands, his voice a low, chilling rasp. "Service entrance." A pause. "Four hostiles." Another pause. "Bravo, lock down level three. Echo, secure the child."

He grips the edge of the dark wood desk so hard his knuckles turn white, his posture radiating a terrifyingly lethal focus.

Nothing about his response feels improvised. Every command is immediate. Every voice answers without hesitation. With chilling clarity, I realize this entire operation exists for one purpose—to keep that little boy alive.

"No shots near the nursery," he adds, his tone dropping an octave. "Move."

On the left side of the screen, Cassian giggles as another tower of wooden blocks collapses into a colorful heap. On the right, four armed men disappear deeper into the building.

Two worlds occupy the same screen, racing toward each other.

Then, the camera angle in the corridor shifts. One of the masked men stops beneath a security light, adjusting the strap of his tactical vest. The movement is brief, but the silver insignia on his sleeve catches the harsh glare of the fluorescent bulbs.

My breath catches painfully in my throat.

I know that emblem. I’ve seen it my entire life. I remember those identical silver insignias lining the driveway of our estate when I was a little girl.

I remember my father clapping those very men on the shoulder, praising their division as the finest security force in the country, telling me I would always be safe because they were guarding our gates.

I had spent twenty-six years believing those uniforms represented honor and protection.

The reality lands like a physical blow, shattering my childhood memories into jagged pieces.

Those men had spent years protecting my father.

Tonight, they are hunting a child.

"No," I whisper, my mouth going instantly dry. "That's. . . that's my father's security company."

Dante slowly turns his head. He doesn't say a word. He just watches me, his green eyes dark and unreadable, witnessing the exact second every certainty I've ever had about my father begins to crumble.

Dante's words from moments ago echo in my mind with terrifying force.

Ask me why your father wants him dead.

I look from Dante’s freezing gaze back to the live feed of the nursery, where Cassian is reaching for another block.

"These men. . . " My voice breaks. "They're here to kill him."

Dante holds my gaze, his expression entirely carved of stone.

"Yes."