Chapter 24
Two days.
Forty-eight hours.
That's how long it's been since Isabella vanished, since the sunlight revealed the violence in her old apartment, and the world hasn't stopped burning since. The fire is inside me—a cold, consuming inferno that refuses to let me sleep, eat, or think clearly.
The penthouse looks like a war zone, not because of violence, but because of neglect.
Bottles of expensive scotch line the counter, untouched—half reminders of the control I used to wield, half accusations of the comfort I now refuse.
Nicole has tried to keep everything in order, but every time someone gets near me, I snap.
The men—my most trusted inner circle, my shadow—keep their distance, communicating in low whispers, watching me like I'm a live weapon they can't afford to breathe near. Every random noise from the hallway makes me turn, muscles coiling; every shifting shadow feels like a lie, a betrayal I missed.
I exist on pure, corrosive adrenaline and the grinding certainty that every tick of that clock is a moment she is suffering.
Sofia's quiet now. Too quiet. That silence is the loudest, most terrifying sound in this fortress.
She sits at the massive marble kitchen table most of the time, her little velvet rabbit clutched in her hands.
The drawings she was working on—colorful, chaotic renderings of imaginary castles—are abandoned beside a bowl of untouched cereal.
Nicole tries to get her to eat, but Sofia just shakes her head, her face pale. She understands the gravity of the atmosphere better than any adult I pay to protect us.
"Is Bella mad at us?" she asked me this morning, her voice small, her eyes red from sleeplessness.
It gutted me. I crouched down to her level, my knees aching. I told her no. That Bella just had to go away for a few days to help someone important.
But my daughter isn't stupid. She's a Moretti—she can smell the blood in the air, same as anyone. She knows that when Papà stops smiling, someone else is going to bleed.
I haven't slept since the night we found her blood on the floor of that apartment. Every time I close my eyes, I see that small, dark stain. It's the only truth I've had in two days.
Alessandro has been holding the family together while I unravel.
He handles the constant calls with the crew bosses, moves money like chess pieces to plug the leaks Danny DeLaurentis caused, and tightens alliances that are beginning to chafe under the mounting pressure.
He's my second, but right now he's more than that.
He's the chain, the physical tether keeping me from tearing the entire city apart piece by piece, turning this organized enterprise into a suicidal rampage.
It's late—maybe morning. I've lost track of time. The clock on the wall ticks, but I don't trust it. Time is measured now only in the gap between my last panicked breath and my next desperate order.
I'm standing near the window, staring out at nothing, my body vibrating with tension. Alessandro's in the office, talking in low, clipped tones to a crew boss in Brooklyn, securing the harbor routes against potential Russian opportunism.
The relative quiet is shattered when the office door slams open.
Rafe storms in, and the sheer force of his arrival makes the air crackle. His eyes are bloodshot and wild, his face unshaven, but his energy is buzzing off him like a live wire—the manic, sudden focus of a man who has finally broken through a wall. He has his laptop under his arm.
"I found it."
The voice is rough, exhausted, but triumphant. Both Alessandro and I snap our heads toward him.
Rafe doesn't stop moving; he slams the laptop onto the coffee table, flipping it open.
"Offshore account. Cayman shell company.
We hit the wall on the immediate transfer, but the money moved through a holding trust three weeks ago to buy property just outside the city limits, in an industrial zone.
The name on the trust matches DeLaurentis. "
My head snaps up, my vision tunneling immediately to the screen. "Her brother?"
He nods, pointing to a rapid-fire succession of data streams. "It's dirty money. The deed was filed under a fake business license—but the coordinates ping off an IP I've been tracing since her email was first hacked."
He's talking fast, words tripping over each other, but the data is simple, undeniable. A location. A concrete answer.
That's all I need. All the patience I have exerted for forty-eight hours evaporates instantly.
I grab my jacket from the back of the chair, the motion sharp enough to knock an empty glass of water off the counter. It shatters against the tile floor, the sound a brief, violent punctuation mark on two days of silence. I ignore it.
Alessandro is already moving, his reaction instantaneous and protective. He moves between me and the main door. "Dante."
"Move."
He doesn't. He stands his ground, a wall of cool reason against my internal fire. "You can't go in there blind."
"I've killed half the men between here and Staten Island looking for answers," I growl. "I'm done waiting."
He studies me, jaw tight. "Then take a team, but don't do anything you can't come back from."
I meet his eyes. "There's nothing to come back to if she's gone."
The words hang there for a beat—a raw, complete confession of my devotion and dependence. He doesn't argue. He only nods once, a silent understanding passing between us, and steps aside.
I am halfway down the hall when a small, fragile voice stops me dead.
"Papà?"
Sofia stands in the hallway, framed in the dark rectangle of her bedroom door. Her hair is a tangled halo of gold, her eyes swollen and red from crying. She's clutching her velvet rabbit like it's armor.
“Principessa.” My voice is a low, choked gasp.
She runs to me, her small feet silent on the thick carpet, and throws her arms around my waist, holding on so tight it hurts. It grounds me, a solid, beautiful weight against my destructive impulse. "You're going to find her?"
I kneel, my hands shaking violently as I cup her face, gently smoothing the hair from her brow. "I'm going to bring her home."
Her lip trembles, the small, innocent vulnerability of it tearing through my hardened core. "Promise?"
"I swear on my life, Sofia," I say softly, the oath absolute. It's a promise I will keep, or I will cease to exist. "I will bring our Bella home."
She nods, a huge, shuddering breath escaping her, and presses her forehead to mine, a silent, desperate blessing. "Bring her back, Papà. Please."
I hold her for a heartbeat longer, breathing in the smell of her shampoo and sunlight, committing the feeling of her small body to memory. Then I stand, my mission sharpened, refined, and justified.
I look at Alessandro. He is already grabbing two vests and two heavy weapons from the secure cabinet.
"Let's move," I command.
The elevator doors slide open with a silent, metallic sigh. The city waits below, dark and hungry.
And this time, I'm not searching. I'm hunting.