Adopted to Biological? Keep Your Golden Child Scapegoat Out novel Chapter 79

Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Dante melted into the mouth of the alley, eyes locked on the woman ten meters away.

No doubt. Same height, same way she tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear-slow, deliberate, like she was clearing space for a draw that

never came.

But the blade-sharp aura that used to make grown men step back was gone.

A cotton dress the color of river stones replaced the matte-black tac gear. Hem brushing her calves.

She used to swear dresses would get her killed, fabric snagged, slowed the sweep to the small of her back.

Now she stood on tiptoe to pull the shutters down over a bookshop window, dress fluttering in the evening breeze, and nobody looked twice.

Dante’s boot lifted-then froze.

A kid in worn sneakers jogged up to her, college age, backpack slung over one shoulder.

“Vesper, sorry I’m late.”

The word punched the air out of Dante’s lungs.

The smile she gave the boy-soft, unguarded-was one she’d never once handed him.

He eased deeper into the shadow until brick met shoulder blade.

Count heartbeats instead of regrets.

Next day his people owned the street.

One “gas leak,” two “roadworks,” three closed-for-fumigation cafés.

Anyone aiming for the bookshop found better places to be.

She noticed-eyes flicking over the empty block, lingering half a second too long-then let it go.

Still the same radar, just no ammo behind it.

Dusk the day after.

He couldn’t wait any longer.

A single courier walked up, hands visible, voice flat.

“Miss Vesper. Why’d you ignore the recall? Mr. Corsaro burned the Elders to the ground for you.”

Dante watched from across the street, pulse hammering the inside of his throat, ready for anger, for tears, for anything that proved he still existed in her world.

Chapter 9

She frowned, polite, confused.

“I’m sorry. I had a memory wipe at eighteen. Who’s Mr. Corsaro?”

The sentence slid between his ribs like an ice pick.

Three years ago intel had flagged a full neural scrub; he’d told himself it was a decoy.

Not a decoy. A gravestone.

He stepped out of the shadow before he could stop himself, boots loud on the pavement, light pooling around him like spilled fuel.

Close enough to see his own reflection in her pupils-stranger, male, thirty-something, armed.

No flicker of recognition.

She offered a small, customer-service smile.

“If we met before, it wasn’t intentional on my part to forget. My record starts at eighteen. Everything earlier is gone.”

He took one unconscious step back.

The street tilted.

All the blood, the late-night calls, the name he’d carved into his own chest-none of it reached her.

The war he’d fought in her name had ended in a cease-fire she never signed.

Tell her anyway?

Drag her through every corpse between them until the floor is slick with hindsight?

She slid a paperback across the counter.

“Looks like you’re carrying a load. Maybe this chills you out, maybe not.”

Her eyes were clean-no dirt, no history.

Dante’s throat burned. He took the book with a shaking hand; a tear hit the cover before he could stop it.

She opened her mouth-then the bell over the door rang.

“Yo, Ves, let’s bounce. Reservation’s in twenty.” The kid strolled in, keys dangling.

She smiled like the lights came back on. “Gotta close early, guys. Sorry.”

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