Chapter 26
Ravage
THE MAESTRO | Present
The target is neutralized, Vitale. Your wife is in the hotel.”
Judas’s voice rasps through the phone, the faint click of his lighter echoing down the line.
“You should be thanking me.”
“For creating havoc?” I mutter, staring out through the windshield. “No thanks.”
“Collateral damage. You wanted a war, didn’t you? Now you have one. You’ll get the girl, you’ve got blood on your hands already, and by tonight the entire continent will know how insane a husband can go for his wife. Finish what you should’ve years ago.”
“You know I never wanted a war.”
My fingers curl around the phone so tightly that the plastic casing groans.
“Doesn’t matter what you wanted,” Judas says. “It’s done. Clean yourself up, King. I’ll see you in Corsica.”
The line goes dead.
I shove the phone back into my pocket.
Today, I’ll have my pretty little wife in my arms again.
I check the guns hidden under the car seat. And check the location of my men that I stationed around the hotel a few hours ago. They reported that Hannah is there with Selene. And Vane is there too.
I speak through the microphone. “Do you see them, Molotov?”
“More like see your Mother-in-law kissing Vane fucking Davenport.”
I clench my teeth. This whore of a woman. “And Selene?”
“She was here a moment ago, maybe in another room,” he says and takes a deep breath. “Tell me again, what this has to do with me?”
“It’s your master, Molotov. You owe him.”
An irritated sigh crackles through the comms, followed by the distinct clack of a high-caliber bolt action being chambered.
“Judas is an extremist, and you are a lunatic,” Kyle mutters.
“There is a vast difference. He pays for my service; you just expect me to risk an international incident because you can’t keep your wife on a leash. ”
“S’s my wife, not a dog,” I speak softly, my eyes fixed on the illuminated facade of the Hotel de L’Ombre across the rain-slicked Parisian street.
On the dashboard, the monitor glows cold and blue, a single red dot pulsing lazily inside a third-floor suite.
“She’s a bird who thinks the sky belongs to her,” I murmur. “I’m simply reminding her who owns the horizon.”
I reach into the briefcase on the passenger seat and pull out the sleek, matte-black detonator.
Judas pulls strings to get the plastic explosives through the French borders.
But the placement is mine.
My men slipped through the hotel’s maintenance grid four hours ago.
“You’re going to collapse the entire west wing,” Kyle says from the other building across the street. His tone holds no outrage, but critique.
“The structural integrity of the old masonry won’t hold if you detonate the support pillars. It’s sloppy.”
“It’s a distraction,” I correct.
My thumb rests lightly against the safety switch.
“Hannah Visconti expects a negotiation, more like a frantic husband offering concessions and signing over territory. She wants revenge for killing her husband or for not letting her have a fuck-night with my Father.” A slow smile touches my mouth. “What she won’t expect is a fucking demolition.”
I glance at my watch. 11:42 PM.
“Thirty seconds, Kyle.”
He adjusts the rifle against his shoulder.
“Keep your eyes on the service exit. If anyone wearing a Visconti crest drags her toward a vehicle before I reach her, take off their kneecaps.”
Kyle gives a short nod.
“If they try to put her in a car?”
“Put a bullet through the engine block.”
His mouth twitches.
“And if the target—your wife—runs the wrong way?”
Something cold and sharp moves through my veins.
“She won’t.”
Rain slides down the windshield. I flip the safety cover.
“She knows the sound of my storms.”
Silence settles inside the SUV. The distant ticking of the dashboard clock. Across the street, the hotel gleams, pristine and elegant.
A playground for people rich enough to think money protects them.
Oblivious to the fact that they’re sleeping inside a graveyard.
My mind flashes to Selene.
To her chin tipped high when she thinks she’s winning.
To the furious fire in her eyes when she defies me. Beautiful.
Wild.
Impossible.
Let’s see how well ghosts protect you from fire, Selene.
“Ten seconds,” Kyle murmurs.
His breathing slows.
“Wind north-west at four knots. Crosshairs locked on the balcony. I see movement inside the suite.”
I live for this.
Destruction.
Reconstruction.
And the certainty that when the smoke clears, I’m the only thing left standing.
“Showtime.”
I press the button.
The ground beneath the SUV bucks violently as a deafening boom rips through midnight.
The west wing erupts outward in a cascade of orange flame, shattered glass, and pulverized stone.
The shockwave slams into the vehicle hard enough to rattle the windows. Debris sprays the windshield. A second later, alarms scream across the district.
Through the smoke, the structural columns groan exactly as Kyle predicted. The west wing tilts and collapses into the courtyard.
“Clean hit,” Kyle says into the static.
“Chaos in the lobby. Security’s scrambling. I have visual on the third-floor balcony.”
He adjusts. “The glass is blown. Someone’s moving.”
I shove the SUV door open. Rain and cold Paris air hit my face. I draw the customized Beretta from my shoulder holster.
Rack the slide as metal snaps clean through the chaos.
“Keep the perimeter clear, Kyle. And find Selene.”
I straighten my coat and walk toward the flames. Invisible among screaming guests spilling into the street.
Kyle’s voice crackles in my ear. “And if I see the Mother-in-law?”
Something dark pulls at my mouth.
I step over shattered glass, watching the burning third floor. “Leave her for me.” Rain hits my face. Fire reflects gold against the black pavement.
“I have a ledger to scrub.”