Chapter Six
Lorenzo
“Make yourself at home, why not,” I say while dropping my jacket over the back of a chair. Dante is already at the bar like he owns the place, pouring himself a double whiskey.
“What is the problem with you and your moody attitude?” he asks, unimpressed.
“The problem with me,” I say, voice tight, “is that my girl disappeared and I need to be in Ibiza.”
He takes a drag from his cigarette. Bianca sees him from the corner of the hallway and shoots him the kind of look that could kill lesser men. He ignores it completely.
“How do you even know she disappeared?” he asks.
“She never made it home after the funeral,” I say, and I am so tired of repeating this that my jaw hurts.
“What if she ran away?” he asks casually.
“What?” I stare at him like he said something impossible. But the thought hits me like ice. Could she have run? It makes sense. Too much sense.
“Lorenzo,” he says, holding his cigarette between two fingers, “no offence, but you killed her father, then showed up to his funeral, and now you want things to go back to normal. Can you blame her for wanting to be as far from you as possible?”
His words land harder than any punch. I hate that he might be right. I hate the logic. I hate that even the idea of her running away feels like a knife under my ribs. She would not vanish without telling her friends. She would not do that to them. She would do it to me though. Easily.
My pulse spikes.
“I still need to check if she is okay,” I say sharply.
“And you need to go to Ibiza to check?” He laughs. “You are a clingy motherfucker.”
“I do not recall asking for your opinion,” I growl. It is the best I can do. He is right. I am clingy when it comes to her. I am much worse than clingy, but he does not need the details.
“Fine,” he sighs. “What did you want to talk about?”
“Well, you called me twice a day since the incident with Luciano,” I remind him. “I thought now would be a good time to discuss why I am receiving attention I absolutely do not want from you.”
I pour myself a glass of whiskey and take a long drink.
“Luciano wants to speak to you,” Dante says. “Since your friend killed his right hand and you threatened him if he came for the Bratva.” He gives me a look. “By the way, what the fuck? Since when are you working with the Bratva?”
“A long time,” I answer. “Go on.”
Dante rolls his eyes. “Anyway, Luciano wants to discuss how you plan to repay him for all the damage you caused. I offered him every deal possible. He still wants to talk to you directly.”
I stare at him. “Since you were promoted to Underboss, why are you not using that privilege to take some weight off my shoulders, so I can go and find my girl?”
Kirill wants me to handle Luciano. Dante wants me to handle Luciano. Luciano wants my head. This is becoming irritating. I might kill the old man myself and end this headache.
“Because I am the Underboss,” Dante growls, “he has not killed you yet.”
“Greetings,” I say, bored, raising my glass.
“For fuck’s sake, Lorenzo. Just speak to him,” Dante snaps. He looks tired of the conversation, tired of me. “Your father was one of the most important members of the Cosa Nostra. We might not be your precious Bratva, but your blood runs here.”
I grit my teeth hard enough that my jaw aches. “I thought he was just a member of the Cosa Nostra,” I say slowly. “Not one of the most important members.”
Of course. They always hide something. Always keep me in the dark. This is why I do not want to meet with Luciano. I want to force their hand. I want answers. I want the whole story about my father and his ties to the mafia, not the crumbs they throw me like I should be grateful.
“Since this discussion is clearly not going anywhere,” Dante says, annoyed, “meet him or don’t. He will come after you anyway.” He stands, ready to leave.
Bianca is still glaring at him from the doorway with that deadly, disappointed mother stare she has perfected over the years.
She despises him. Not because he is mafia, not because he is an asshole, but because he broke her daughter’s heart.
Her daughter was twenty at the time. Dante was forty.
Then he dumped her to marry a mafia princess who later died in a car accident.
After that, Bianca’s daughter disappeared somewhere in Florence, and Bianca never forgave him.
“I might call him,” I say.
Dante raises an eyebrow.
“Luciano,” I clarify, annoyed. “But only when I am back. After I make sure she is alright.”
Dante looks directly at me, his expression hardening. “You know when she will be alright?”
I stay silent. My chest tightens.
He answers anyway. “When you are no longer in her life.”
The words hit like a bullet. My blood turns to ice.
He continues, quieter this time. “Leave the girl alone, Lorenzo.”
I look at him, and whatever patience I had is gone. “Have a pleasant evening, Uncle.”
I straighten my cuffs. “And do say a prayer before you start your engine.” A faint smile. “I’d hate for the device beneath your car to function properly.”
He laughs. The bastard laughs and leaves the room.
“Sir, the jet is ready,” the pilot says from the entrance.
“Let’s go,” I tell him.
We head straight to the jet, but Dante’s words echo in my skull like a curse that refuses to die.
Do you know when she will be alright?
When you are no longer in her life.
As if I do not already know that.
As if it is not carved into the back of my mind every time I close my eyes.
I just need to make sure she is safe.
I need to see her with my own eyes.
Breathing. Conscious. Alive.
Then I will figure everything out.
After eight hours of worrying about what the hell I am going to find in Ibiza, we finally arrive. The sun is rising over the island, too bright, too cheerful for the hell boiling inside my chest. I am exhausted. My bones feel heavy, my eyes burn, and my mind refuses to rest even for a second.
Andres sent me every detail he could dig up.
Every place Serena used her card. The hotel she booked.
The clubs she visited. He was not joking when he said he sent his team to look for her.
He sent a damn army. Fifty men tearing through Ibiza like hungry wolves, and their team leader dropped off a full report before I even stepped off the jet.
The report lists the club she was in two nights ago, what drinks she ordered, the names of every single person who was at that party.
None of it helps me breathe.
I order another espresso. I do not have the luxury of sleep. I need to find her. I need answers. Kirill was not pleased about me flying to Ibiza, but I told him I will deal with Luciano when I return. He offered backup, more men, more force, but none of it matters if she vanished into thin air.
It is like she was swallowed by the ground.
Andres’s men searched for her since yesterday, and still nothing.
No trace. According to the hotel records, she never returned after the first night.
She has been here four days now, but she never made it back to the hotel after that party.
She left with someone. Someone who took her. Or someone she chose to go with.
The thought burns through my skull.
Did she leave with another man?
I try to push the thought away, but it claws back. I need to leave the toxic version of myself at home. I tell myself I need to be the better version of Lorenzo for this. The version that can think. The version that deserves her.
But if she is with another man, then what?
I don’t even feel rage. Rage is loud. This is quiet.
This is surgical. I see it so clearly it almost calms me.
I would cut off his dick slowly, watching his face while he realizes exactly why it’s happening.
I would slice it thin, careful, precise, lay it out like cured meat, build a neat little salami sandwich and force it between his teeth.
I’d make him chew. Make him swallow. Make him understand what he thought made him powerful is nothing but meat.
Then I’d take his hands. Not in one clean strike. I’d take my time with them. Every finger that touched her. Every palm that dared press against her skin. I’d sever them and let him look at what’s left of himself. Let him feel the absence. Let him understand that touching her costs pieces.
And his eyes. I wouldn’t rush that part. I’d lean close when I do it. I’d let him see me clearly one last time before I push my thumbs in and take the light away. No one who looks at her like that deserves sight. No one who touches her deserves to walk away whole.
My jaw clenches. I take another sip of espresso, bitter and burning. I need to focus. She is with no one. She is probably drunk. Lost. Scared. She is not with another man. She cannot be.
My phone rings.
Unknown number.
“Speak,” I say. I never appreciate unknown numbers. If someone hides their identity, it means trouble or stupidity. Usually both.
“Lorenzo.”
My blood goes cold.
“What do I owe this pleasure, Luciano?” I ask, already irritated that he dares interrupt me now of all times.
“I think you owe me some men. And some apologies,” he says, pleased with himself.
“I will most likely deliver you men,” I say, bored. “Probably yours. Using my signature transportation, you know which ones.” I pause. “The coffins.”
He laughs. The arrogant bastard. “Lorenzo, I am giving you so many chances to come to good terms with me. You killed my nephews, then my men, then my right hand.”
“Actually, that was Andres,” I correct him, dripping sarcasm.
“For the memory of your father,” he continues, “I am putting in effort.”
“Touching. Really,” I say flatly, the irritation settling in the moment he dares to mention my father. My jaw tightens, but my smile is almost polite. “I’ll have my cook prepare you some tiramisu.” I straighten slowly. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure it’s without poison.”
He laughs again. “Come and meet me at my mansion.”
“Afraid not. I’m booked. Professional villain duties.”
“I might have something you are interested in,” Luciano says. “A deal you cannot refuse.”
“Yeah. We’ll revisit it.” I’m already stepping back, already disengaging. Whatever tolerance I had is gone. “I have somewhere to be,” I say, polite but final. “Pleasure as always.” My gaze cools. “Goodbye.”
I hang up before he can say anything else.
I really need to change my phone number. Again.
My phone pings.
Lev.
Lev: Got there safe?
ME: I’m answering you, aren’t I?
Lev: Blink twice if you’re being held hostage by your own attitude.
ME: Is there any reason why you’re texting me right now?
Lev: Obviously. There’s no one left to glare at me when I make bad decisions.
What an idiot. I close my phone and head toward the club where Serena spent the night before she disappeared.
The morning heat in Ibiza feels suffocating, loud, wrong.
I push through the crowd until I spot a blonde girl speaking to a police officer just outside the entrance.
She looks young, tired, shaken. The officer holds a notebook.
“Thank you, Summer,” the officer says. “Thank you for all the information you provided. We will be looking for her.”
“Please,” the girl says, swallowing a sob. “I do not know where she is. She was so drunk. I am scared something bad happened to her.”
The officer gives her a stiff nod. “Do not worry. Thank you for informing us. We will take it from here.”
Summer heads back toward the club entrance, but something twists hard in my gut. My pulse spikes. I step forward.
“Wait,” I call out.
She turns, her eyes glassy and exhausted. “Hi, can I help you?” she asks politely, even though she looks like she might collapse.
“Who were you talking to the police about?” I ask. My voice is low, sharper than I intend. My heart hammers against my ribs like it is trying to claw its way out.
“A girl disappeared four days ago,” she says, her face falling. “She came from New York. We spent the afternoon together. Then we came to the club where I work.” She takes a shaky breath. “We had a lot of drinks. Mostly her. And she. . . she also took drugs.”
My blood heats like it is turning to fire. I pray it is not Serena, but the panic digs deeper.
“Then she disappeared all of a sudden,” Summer continues.
“I looked for her the whole night. Everywhere. But I could not find her.” Her voice breaks.
“I went to the police right away, but they said it was too early to mark it as a disappearance and told me to come back after forty-eight hours. But I knew something was wrong.”
My throat tightens. “What was her name?” I ask, though I am already suffocating on the answer.
“Serena,” she whispers.
Fucking hell.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“Do you know her?” she asks quietly.
I nod once. “I am here to find her. I am her boyfriend.”
I cannot say ex. I will not. That would be even more pathetic.
Summer blinks at me, confused.
“What?” I ask her, my patience hanging by a thread.
“Nothing,” she says quickly. Then she hesitates, chewing on her lip. “It is just. . . there was a guy at the party who said he was her husband.”
Her husband.
My vision pulses black.
“I mean,” she adds, “no judgment if she was cheating on him with you. The guy looked like a creep anyway.”
My hands curl into fists. My blood surges through me like gasoline igniting in my veins.
The world tightens to a thin, trembling line.
Someone claimed to be her husband. Someone followed her.
Someone took her. My jaw throbs from how hard I am clenching it.
I force myself to breathe. To think past the rage clawing at my throat.
I cannot break now. Not when the only thing that matters is finding her and bringing her back.
But in this moment, all I can think about is how badly I want to snap someone’s neck.
“How did he look?” I ask her. My head feels like it is exploding from the pressure building behind my eyes.
She tries to gather her thoughts. “He was tall,” she says slowly. “Young. Pretty face. Blonde hair. He was dressed in a suit.”
I type every detail into a message and send it to Andres instantly. I need a name. A face. A location. Anything. Someone walked into that club, claimed to be Serena’s husband, and took her like she belonged to him.
This happened four days ago.
Four fucking days.
She has been gone for four days.
My chest tightens like someone is crushing it with their hands. I feel heat spreading across my skin, violent and cold at the same time.
Whoever dared to take her. . .
Whoever touched her. . .
Whoever laid a finger on what is mine. . .
I will find him.
And I will ruin him.
Not kill.
Ruin.
I stare past Summer, unable to see anything but the image in my mind of Serena stumbling out of this club, drunk, drugged, trusting the wrong person.
My teeth grind.
Who the fuck dared to take her?