Under the Shadows

38. Unveiling The Reclaimer

But the photos that struck Elyne the hardest were the ones from his childhood. Those images lingered in her mind, carving deeper than any of the others.

One showed his young version, no older than five or six, sitting cross-legged on a sun-dappled lawn. His cheeks were flushed with the energy of play, his dark curls slightly tousled, and his hazel-green eyes wide with wonder as he held up a small jar with a firefly glowing inside. The corners of his mouth were curved in a soft, innocent smile, a perfect blend of pride and curiosity. His tiny hands clutched the jar as if it contained the secrets of the universe.

And then there was the birthday photo. There, perhaps seven or eight, he sat at a small table covered with a colorful cloth, a cake adorned with sparklers in front of him. His eyes sparkled as brightly as the candles, his little fingers poised to tear into a wrapped gift beside his plate. His father was there too, caught mid-clap, his face softened by pride.

Elyne had felt an almost physical ache as she took it all in, her fingers gripping the edge of the table as though it might anchor her against the rising tide of emotion.

How the hell had they gotten so many pictures? The question burned in her mind, laced with fury and disbelief. Wedding albums, childhood snapshots, private moments that no stranger had any right to see—all laid bare for the world to dissect.

Who could be heartless enough to betray him like this? To hand over these fragments of his life to the vultures, knowing full well they'd be torn apart and twisted for headlines? She could practically hear the smug tones of the anchors dissecting his every smile, every laugh, every glance, as if they had any right to claim his story.

Rats. That's what they were. People who fed on scandal and destruction, willing to sell their own souls—or someone else's—to stay relevant. It wasn't just vile; it was personal. These weren't just photos. They were pieces of him, moments captured in trust, now splattered across every screen like a grotesque mosaic.

Dante Amato.

The name felt foreign in her head, as though it didn't belong to the man who had haunted her life for these past few days. Dante. She rolled it over silently, testing its weight, its texture. It didn't suit him, she thought. It lacked the sharpness, the bite of the man she had come to know. And yet, it was his. His name. His past. His truth.

Twenty-six. Rich family. Italian-American. A former prodigy turned renegade.

It was too much to process all at once. Her gaze flicked to the door that led to the adjoining room where The Reclaimer now slept, his body still, his face pale but peaceful. The doctor had assured her he was stable, but the sight of him like that—so vulnerable—still unsettled her. This was the man who had pulled her into a whirlwind of danger and chaos, who had dismantled her defenses and forced her to confront parts of herself she'd buried long ago. And now, he was just... Dante.

Her fists clenched in her lap as the next wave of information hit her, the details that Dr. Greaves had shared with clinical precision. The NYPD had uncovered everything—or nearly everything. The connection between StarShield and The Reclaimer had been pieced together meticulously, from the tragic death of a woman whose insurance was denied to the disappearance of her son, now identified as Dante.

And then there were the workers. The ones he'd trusted to help build his sanctuary, his impenetrable fortress. They'd sold him out the moment his face hit the news, trading loyalty for a quick payday.

Cowards.

The betrayal burned in her chest, sharp and bitter. She didn't know why it enraged her so much; it wasn't like she expected better from people. And yet, the thought of him being turned in by those he had trusted—after everything he'd done to survive, to stay hidden—felt like a twisted punchline to a cruel joke.