Chapter 22
Applause roared through the small auditorium, bright and chaotic, the kind of joy that could make a man forget he'd ever learned to bleed.
Sofia took her bow, tiny shoulders straight, grin wide enough to split the room in two. She looked out into the crowd, searching until her gaze found mine, and when she spotted me, she waved like she'd just conquered the world.
My chest swelled—pride, love, and that quiet ache that never really leaves me.
I stood and clapped with everyone else, the sound a low, rhythmic thunder in the small, overheated space.
My eyes were locked on my little girl, watching her soak in the kind of light I'd spent my whole life trying to give her.
The bright, uncomplicated light of a stage, a performance, and a proud father.
For a second, everything felt right. The world beyond this room, with its demands, its betrayals, and its ceaseless violence, ceased to exist. It was just Papà and Principessa.
Then I saw Alessandro at the back of the auditorium.
He wasn't clapping. His hands were clasped in front of him, motionless.
His jaw was tight, carved from granite, and his eyes, dark and focused, found mine over the heads of the crowd.
His whole body radiated a stillness that was deeply wrong, a professional paralysis that made the air around me turn cold.
Whatever he was holding back, it was bad.
My own protective reflexes, dormant for the last blissful hour, snapped instantly awake.
The applause faded, slowly dying into murmurs and shuffling feet. The velvet curtain dropped, heavy and final. And the world tilted back into its usual sharp, brutal edges.
Outside the school, the autumn sun was bright but offered little warmth. Sofia's hand was small and warm in mine as we stepped down the front steps. She was still buzzing, skipping slightly with the residual energy of the performance.
"Did I do good, Papà?" she asked, beaming up at me, her eyes shining with the need for my approval.
I crouched slightly, bringing my face close to hers, and brushed a kiss to the top of her head. "You were perfect, Principessa. The best ladybug Princess in the entire world."
Her giggle, bright and pure, cracked something open in me, something that almost felt like peace—until Alessandro's voice cut through it, low and urgent.
"Dante."
I looked up. He was waiting by the polished black car, Rafe standing a respectful distance behind him. Alessandro's face was etched with a grim prognosis. The muscle in his jaw twitched once when our eyes met—a tiny, controlled signal of imminent disaster.
"Rafe found something."
That tone. That look. My gut went cold, twisting itself into a hard knot.
I immediately crouched down, placing both hands on Sofia's small shoulders, framing her face. I forced my expression to remain calm, gentle. "Go with Marco, sweetheart," I said, nodding toward the armed driver already opening the back door. "He'll take you home, and I'll be right behind you, okay?"
She blinked at me, her brow furrowed with confusion. "But..."
"Go," I said softly, brushing her hair back from her face. "I promise I'll see you soon. Be good for Marco."
She nodded, reluctant and still confused, but compliant, a trait I'd painstakingly instilled. I watched, my jaw tight, as Marco settled her into the car and closed the door with a precise thud. I didn't turn away until the black sedan pulled cleanly into traffic, dissolving into the city.
Only then did I turn to Alessandro, shedding the father instantly and becoming the Don.
He didn't waste time with a preamble. "It was her brother, Danny," he said flatly, his voice too quiet for the public space. "Rafe traced the email that leaked the bank file to the paper. It originated from his personal account."
The words hit like a physical gunshot. For a moment, I couldn't move, the world stuttering to a halt around the harsh reality of that name.
Then everything inside me snapped taut. My fists clenched so hard my knuckles cracked audibly in the chilled air. Betrayal. It was the oldest wound in my world, and it was fresh again.
"No," I ground out, my voice low, dangerous, a growl pulled from the deepest part of my chest. "Not Isabella." The fury wasn't toward her yet, but toward the man who dared use her proximity to me.
"I know," Alessandro said, his tone a steady anchor.
"Rafe cross-checked the metadata. The timestamp matches when she was inside your penthouse, deep asleep.
She didn't have access to her account. It wasn't her hand on the keyboard.
" He hesitated, his gaze flicking toward the road where Sofia's car had vanished.
"Her brother's mixed up with the Russians, been using the Mayor's office to pull strings for them.
The article was meant to hurt you, Dante.
It was his smokescreen to cover his tracks. "
My blood roared in my ears. I yanked my phone out of my coat pocket, heart pounding a violent, irregular rhythm. My thumb flew over the security updates.
8:32 AM — Ms. DeLaurentis left the penthouse.
8:47 AM — Said she was meeting you at the school.
I was fifteen miles away. She had lied to the men I paid to protect her. The timeline was impossible. The audacity was breathtaking.
And then, at the bottom of the feed, was the message—one I hadn't seen come through until now.
Bella:
I'm sorry.
I stared at the two words. I'm sorry. Sorry for what?
For her brother's actions? For her involvement?
Or simply for walking out? Did she know what he was doing?
The terrifying uncertainty that she might be fundamentally disloyal, that she might have been laughing at my control, ignited a cold, hard knot of rage in my chest.
"She left," I repeated, the words scraping out of me. "She left the house. She lied to the guards."
The fury started low—just a tremor—and then spread until I was trembling.
"Rafe," I barked, turning to the guard. "Take a team. Lock down the penthouse. Find out which guards let her walk out and put them in the small room. No one goes in or out."
Alessandro stepped forward. "I'm going with you."
"I'm driving. You are not thinking straight right now. You're going to hit a wall or a witness. Get in the car, Dante."
The command was so rare, so absolute, I almost hit him. But the rationality in his eyes held me back. I was too volatile. I nodded once, savagely.
"Her apartment," I ground out, walking to the passenger door.
Alessandro didn't argue. He opened the driver's door, got in, and started the engine. The car pulled away from the curb with a smooth, professional acceleration.
I sat in the passenger seat, silent, staring ahead.
I didn't reach for my phone to make calls; I was too consumed.
I watched the world rush by—the bright sun on the buildings, the oblivious faces of the people on the sidewalk.
All of them were safe, while the woman I was foolishly starting to trust had abandoned the only protection she had.
I trusted her.
The memory of her moaning against my mouth hours earlier, tasting like blueberries and surrender, was a cruel, hot flicker of pain. I realized the only time I felt safe was when she was locked inside my walls, under my eye. Now the walls were breached, the lock broken, and she had done it herself.
The door to her old apartment was closed, but when I hit the handle, it opened instantly.
We swept through the space like silent, professional predators, Alessandro clearing each room with the methodical efficiency of a man who'd done this a thousand times, while I followed close behind, my gun drawn but held low.
The air was still, heavy with the residual scent of her perfume and something else.
"Dante," Alessandro called softly.
He was kneeling near the window, where the silver light bled across the hardwood floor, his hand hovering inches above the polished surface.
I crossed the room, the sudden silence of my own breathing deafening. I crouched beside him, my muscles screaming with tension.
Then I saw it. A small smear of crimson streaked across the floor, almost hidden by the long shadow cast by the wall. It wasn't a pool; it was just a drag mark —an accidental transfer.
Alessandro looked up at me, his eyes dark with the realization. "Could've been here before. Someone could've cut themselves earlier—"
I didn't listen. I reached down, my hand shaking slightly, and swiped my fingers through the dark stain. My gaze never left the floor. I held my hand up, bringing the slick substance closer to the faint, reflected light.
Wet.
I stared at the dark, viscous sheen against my skin, the air burning in my lungs. I felt the heat of it. It was fresh.
"Wet," I repeated, the word scraping out of me like a low, terrifying growl.
For a moment, neither of us spoke. The only sound was the distant city hum and the ragged inhale of my own breath.
She was innocent. My Bella had been taken.
Alessandro straightened slowly. "We'll find her. We'll bring her back." His voice was devoid of emotion, pure resolve.
I stood too, ignoring the faint, cold sting of the blood on my fingers. I stared out the window at the city beyond—the endless sprawl of glass and light and sin that had just swallowed the only woman who made me feel human.
When I finally spoke, my voice was low, certain, and utterly devoid of mercy.
"We don't stop," I said. "Not until I have her back, not until her brother is begging for a quick death."
My eyes caught the smear of blood one last time, the reflection of it burning like a wound in the floor.
"...or everything burns." The promise was a cold, quiet oath to the city, to my enemies, and to the woman who dared to leave my protection. I would tear the city apart to find her.