Chapter Five
Lorenzo
I grab my phone again, hoping for something, anything, but there are no messages.
No missed calls. Not even a blocked attempt.
Nothing. I told Andres to hack Serena’s phone and unblock my number, but it makes no difference.
Every time I try to call, her voicemail greets me like a slap.
Her phone is switched off. When I text, she never answers.
When I check the security cameras at her mansion, the screens show nothing but silence.
It feels like she disappeared from the world.
And I am losing my mind.
“Should I prepare your coffee, sir?” Bianca asks softly from the doorway.
She looks exhausted, with dark bags under her eyes.
She came back from Florence last night after visiting her daughter, and the moment she noticed Serena was not here, she started hovering like a ghost. Judging me with her eyes, even when she does not speak.
I rub my forehead. “No, thank you, Bianca.”
Before I can say anything else, my dogs storm into the room like furry missiles. Pancake jumps straight into my arms, licking my face with enthusiasm that almost knocks me over.
“Hi, buddy,” I say while running a hand through his fur.
Milkshake wiggles next to me, waiting for his turn, and I scratch his head.
My suit is covered in white dog hair now, but I do not care.
I will always take dog hair over not touching them.
Milkshake barks playfully, glaring at Pancake like he cannot believe the disrespect of Pancake being held longer.
“Daddy needs to go to work,” I tell Pancake. He barks at me as if arguing, then jumps down and trots toward my room to investigate something. Milkshake stays glued to my leg, leaning his whole warm body against me for attention.
I bend down, kiss Milkshake’s forehead, and return to petting him. There is something grounding about my dogs. Something loyal. Something I cannot destroy by accident. When I look up, Pancake returns with something in his mouth.
Serena’s one-piece pajamas.
He drops them in front of me, his eyes wide and sad, like he is waiting for me to explain where she is and why she has not come home.
A knot forms in my chest. “I miss her too,” I tell him quietly.
Pancake lowers himself onto the pajamas and curls up, as if sleeping on her scent will bring her back. Milkshake looks between the pajamas and me with the same silent question. I crouch beside them, brushing my fingers over the fabric she used to wear. My throat aches.
“She will come back soon,” I whisper to them both. “I promise.”
I say it like a vow I intend to carve into the world.
Then I grab my keys and head out. I need to talk to Andres.
I need him to go to her house and make sure she is alive and breathing.
She does not trust me, but annoyingly, she has developed some strange friendship with Andres, and I am hoping she will at least open the door for him.
If she does not, I will sacrifice the space I am pretending to give her and break into the house myself.
My phone rings the moment I start the car.
For a second, I pray it is her. It is not.
At least it is not Dante, but seeing Ashley’s name on the screen does not improve my mood.
I blocked her since the day she tried to make Serena jealous.
I enjoy jealousy, but only when I control it.
Only when it is a game I orchestrate, not when some pathetic woman tries to manipulate my relationship like she has a right.
“Is it the end of the world?” I pick up the phone and answer before the second ring.
“Uhm, hi, Lorenzo,” Ashley bubbles nervously. “No, actually, I just—”
“If it is not, then why are you calling me?” I ask, already bored. This is why I employ people. So they handle things and only contact me when the world is falling apart. And right now, the world will end if Serena does not answer me soon.
“I’m sorry! I just wanted to ask if I can take some annual leave,” she says.
What a useless, pathetic reason to disturb me.
“Contact HR, for fuck’s sake, Ashley.” My tone sharpens. She stays silent for too long. “Anything else?”
“Uhm. . . no, not really,” she mumbles, sounding disappointed. “Will we see you in the office anytime soon, sir?”
I already regret picking up. “Busy now. I need to go. Contact HR regarding your leave and only call me in emergency situations. Actual emergencies. Like the building being on fire.”
“Okay. Thank you, Lorenzo. See you soon,” she says quickly.
I hang up on her mid-breath.
For fuck’s sake. I am pathetic. Every woman annoys me now. They irritate me simply because they exist and they are not her.
I head outside, straight to my Porsche Macan. I can barely focus on my work, on my responsibilities, on anything. My entire life is a mess without her. I need her, even if she hates me. I start the engine, the car growling beneath me, and drive directly to the Cursed.
The moment I enter, the familiar darkness and bass-heavy music feel suffocating.
I search for Andres. He is buried in work with his old ex–Navy SEAL colleagues.
He never speaks about that part of his life.
He joined the Navy when he was eighteen, then spent years disappearing for months at a time.
He would show up covered in bruises, fight in Kirill’s underground ring, help the Bratva, then vanish again.
I never asked what happened during those years. I never will until he tells me himself. When he is ready, I will listen.
I spot him at the bar and start walking toward him. Before I reach him, a hand grips my arm. Instantly, my whole body tenses, and it takes everything in me not to snap the wrist holding me. I turn, ready to kill someone.
Instead, I see a familiar face.
Clara.
Her eyes are swollen. Red. She is still crying. Still shaking. She looks like she has not slept in days.
My stomach drops. A cold, heavy weight settles in my chest.
She does not say anything. Her hand is trembling on my arm, fingers cold, shaking so hard she can barely hold on.
“Are you okay?” I ask, my voice softer than I want it to be. Softer than I am capable of being for most people.
“Serena.” She hiccups the name out like it is choking her.
My heart stops. “What about her?” I ask quickly. Please let her be fine. Please.
“Serena.” She repeats it again, and her voice breaks completely. She wipes her tears only for more to fall. “She disappeared.”
Her entire body shakes.
A cold stone drops into my stomach. I force myself to breathe, to keep from losing control in the middle of the club.
“Breathe, Clara,” I tell her, trying to keep my voice steady. “tell me what you mean. What do you mean she disappeared?”
“She. . .” Clara swallows a sob. “She never made it home.” My chest tightens. My arms are shaking. I am not sure if it is her trembling or me. My blood feels like it turns to fire. “Sienna and Kylie are scared. Since her father’s funeral, she never came home.”
She cries harder. “It is all my fault. I helped kill her father and then I missed the funeral because I could not face her knowing what I have done.” Her voice crumbles.
“It is my fault,” she whispers again, shaking violently.
Her sobbing pulls Lev’s attention and he starts walking toward us, eyes narrowed.
But my mind is somewhere else. The funeral was three days ago. Serena has been missing for three days. Three days while I sat here, giving her space like a delusional fool. This is what happens when I try to act human, when I pretend to have a conscience, when I convince myself she needed distance.
I should have broken into her house. I should have dragged her into my arms. I should have known something was wrong. Instead I waited. Like an idiot. And now she is gone.
It is not Clara’s fault. It is mine.
“You know it is not your fault, Clara.” I put my hand on her shoulder. Lev reaches us, his expression sharp and ready to cut. “I killed her father, not you. If anyone carries the blame, it is me.”
“I helped,” she cries, tears overflowing. “I helped with all these terrible things. I helped because you told me to!” She turns on Lev, pushing at his chest with her small shaking hands. “I did it because of you!”
Lev’s eyes darken in that dangerous, unhinged way of his, the kind of look that usually ends in blood. But even he stays still, watching her with a strange mix of annoyance and something almost like guilt.
He does not say anything. Not one word. Typical Lev. A silent, unpredictable psycho staring at her like she is both a nuisance and a trigger.
“It doesn’t matter if you helped,” I tell Clara firmly. “Even if you didn’t, I would have found someone else to do the job. It would have happened anyway.” My jaw tightens. “It is not your fault. I did that.”
Like the idiot I am. Revenge never tasted as sweet as I imagined it would. It tastes rotten. Bitter.
“I hate you,” she sobs harder and looks at Lev with eyes full of pain.
“I hate you too, Kolyuchka,” he says in that cold, flat voice of his, still not looking away from her.
Of course. She is wearing lace. Lev is obsessed with lace.
The man would crawl through fire for a woman in lace, and she is five feet tall and furious, the exact combination that fries his already malfunctioning moral compass.
“Ugh,” she grunts and walks past him, hitting his arm on her way out. The impact looks ridiculous. He is six foot eight and built like a slab of concrete. They should call him the Mountain.
Lev finally turns to me. “She said not to give you her phone number.”
“Fuck off, Lev. I know you told Andres not to give it to me.” I scowl at him.
“Fucking traitor,” he mutters under his breath.
Andres approaches us, looking between us like he just stepped into a family argument he deeply regrets witnessing.
“I need help,” I say. No hesitation. No ego. No time for games. “Serena is missing.”
Andres freezes. Lev’s face drops all humor. Their expressions sharpen instantly.
“What do you mean she is missing?” Lev asks. There is nothing playful in his tone now.
“She never made it home since the funeral,” I say. My chest tightens again. Saying it aloud feels like stabbing myself.
“But the funeral was three days ago,” Andres says quietly.
“Do you think I don’t fucking know that?” My voice cracks with frustration.
“If she has been missing for three days,” Lev says slowly, genuinely confused, “what the hell have you been doing for the last three days?”
“I gave her space,” I admit, sounding like the world’s biggest idiot. “I thought she needed it.”
Lev blinks at me. “I do not know the meaning of that word. Space. Apologies.”
“I am on it,” Andres says immediately. “I will check all security cameras from the funeral. Give me five minutes.”
Lev studies me. He sees exactly how close I am to losing it. He notices the tremor in my hand, the way my breathing is not steady anymore. I try to hide it. I try not to show how the panic is drowning me. I try not to break here, in front of everyone.
I have been trying to be better. Trying to be the man she deserves. Trying to keep myself controlled, calm, grounded. But even at my absolute best, I know I do not deserve her.
I curl my fist so tightly my knuckles turn white.
I need to hit something.
I need blood on my hands.
My blood is boiling, rising, burning my throat.
My vision blurs at the edges.
Serena is missing.
“She will be okay.” Lev says it like he is reading instructions off a cereal box. His attempt at comforting me is almost laughable. “They know she is yours. No one will dare.”
“What if it is the opposite?” I ask quietly. The thoughts I have been trying to suffocate finally claw their way out. “What if they go after her precisely because they know she is mine?”
Lev shrugs, bored and dangerous. “Then I guess it is time to remind them why they should not touch your woman.”
His eyes drift back toward the stage. Clara is dancing, drenched in money, smiling too brightly, moving too fast. Something is off about her. She looks like she is trying to outrun her own mind.
“I do not even know where to start,” I mutter, more to myself than to him.
“Ibiza,” Andres says from behind me.
I turn. “What?”
“She went straight to the airport after the funeral,” he explains. “I checked everything. Her cards. The cameras. The satellites.” He looks at me, face hardening. “She took a flight to Ibiza.”
Ibiza.
What the hell is she doing in Ibiza? A cold heat shoots through my chest. I need to go there. Immediately.
“I am leaving,” I tell them.
“Wait,” Andres says. “Are you sure your presence is needed? I already sent two teams to search for her.”
“Yes,” I say without hesitation. “My presence is absolutely needed. I need to find her myself. I need to bring her home. Even if she is kicking and screaming. I am done with this give her space idea. It is useless. Never again.”
Lev grins like a maniac. “That is my man.”
“I will arrange everything,” Andres says. “I will handle the issues here.”
I nod once.
I am leaving today.
No negotiation.
No delay.
The private jet will take a few hours to prepare.
My phone vibrates.
A text from Dante.
Dante: Meet me in 10 minutes at your house.
ME: Ok.
Perfect. I can talk to him while the jet is prepped.
Then I am going to Ibiza.
And I am bringing my woman back.
Alive.
Breathing.
Mine.
No matter what it takes.