Chapter 19
ELENA
Hours pass in darkness.
Time loses meaning between the sound of the rain-soaked tires on the road and the suffocating silence of the car.
I can’t see anything. Only the relentless forward motion and the vibration of the engine beneath me tell me we’re still moving.
The occasional sharp turn sends my body tilting back into the door next to me, causing the restraints to bite into my wrists.
I don’t know where they’re taking me.
I don’t even know who they are.
All I know is that Luca is no longer in my arms and I’m terrified that he’s being harmed.
That truth eclipses everything else. It swallows the fear for my own safety and leaves behind only the hollow, screaming absence of him like a limb torn away. I’ve been left to bleed out from the aftermath with no one there to help me bandage the wound.
“Please,” I whisper hoarsely for what feels like the hundredth time. My throat burns raw, tired from how much I’ve been screaming since being shoved into the back seat. “Please. Just… let me know he’s okay.”
The driver doesn’t respond.
He hasn’t said a single word since forcing me into the car. Not when I screamed, not when I cried. The silence is worse than any threats would have been. I twist as much as the restraints allow, leaning forward against the seat.
“He’s just a child. He needs me. Please, just pull over. I won’t try anything, I swear.”
Nothing.
Not even a glance in the rearview mirror to look at me.
The realization settles over me, a slow, dawning horror. Maybe Luca is already dead.
My breath starts to come faster, panic clawing its way back up my throat and nearly choking me. I force myself to count the inhales before I get lightheaded, the way I used to when Luca woke up from a nightmare and cried until he was sick.
In for four. Hold. Out for four.
I can’t fall apart. Not yet. If I do, there will be nothing left of me that can fight.
Chances are high that keeping Luca alive is the point. Dead, he’s useless. A corpse doesn’t force concessions. A body doesn’t bend men like Dante Cosenza. If they wanted revenge and a spectacle, they would have killed Luca the second he was torn from my arms.
Using him against Dante will require him to be kept alive.
For all his faults, Dante is not a man who reacts blindly when the stakes are this high. Even under pressure, even with his son’s life hanging in the balance, he is devastatingly logical. I know him well enough to be certain of that.
He will demand proof of life. He would never negotiate on blind faith alone. Not with men willing to put a price on a child in the first place. He will want confirmation or some kind of tangible evidence that proves Luca is alive before he gives them anything at all.
That knowledge steadies me a little. I press my lips together, breathing carefully now, forcing the terror back into its cage where it belongs.
The car drives for what feels like forever.
My body aches in places I didn’t know could hurt, muscles locked tight from fear and tension, wrists burning where the restraints cut in every time the car jolts.
Somewhere along the way, the terror rattling in my chest dulls, settling into a heavy, aching bruise that throbs with every thought of Luca.
The road changes beneath us eventually. I notice it dimly at first, the way the vibrations shift, the sound of the tires smoothing out and no longer hissing against wet, uneven pavement. I force myself upright and lean toward the window. Dark shapes rush past outside, unfamiliar and indistinct.
Wherever we are, it’s far from where I started.
Gravel crunches loudly beneath the tires, the sound jarring after the long stretch of slick pavement. My heart stutters painfully as the SUV rolls forward, then slows again. Suddenly, brilliant white light floods the interior, harsh enough to make me flinch.
Spotlights.
I squint, trying to see through the windshield as a towering iron gate looms out of the darkness ahead. They’re massive, black metal rising high into the night, flanked by stone pillars that disappear into the shadows above them.
The driver rolls his window down just enough to exchange a glance with the man stationed at the gate, then the gates begin to move.
They creak open slowly, the sound deep and ominous.
The SUV rolls forward again, passing through as the gates close behind us with a final, echoing clang that reverberates through the quiet interior of the cab.
The drive curves sharply upward in a winding S-turn, each one tightening the knot in my chest. It’s hard to see more than three feet ahead with only the SUV’s headlights.
Trees crowd in on both sides, their branches arching overhead like grasping fingers blotting out what little sky there is.
The road feels intentionally claustrophobic, no doubt designed to disorient, to remind you how far from escape you are.
Then, suddenly, the tree line breaks.
The headlights sweep across open space as a massive estate looms ahead.
Stone walls rise out of the darkness, tall and imposing.
Their edges are softened only slightly by carefully placed lights that glow warmly against the rain.
Beyond them, the grounds stretch endlessly with perfectly manicured lawns, trimmed hedges, and a stone path that glistens from the storm.
The main house sits at the center like a fortress. Its windows glow warmly against the night, yellow light spilling out in stark contrast to the cold dread curling tighter in my gut. It looks welcoming… almost civilized.
Which somehow makes it worse.
The car slows as it approaches, curving smoothly around the front bend of the entry port. Gravel crunches beneath the tires again as the vehicle rolls to a stop beneath the overhang. Before I can brace myself, the door beside me is yanked open.
Cold air rushes in immediately, biting against my damp clothes and skin.
I gasp as hands grab my arms, fingers digging in with a bruising force used to haul me out of the car.
My feet drag uselessly against the gravel as I’m pulled upright, the restraints on my wrists forcing my shoulders back at a painful angle.
I stumble, barely catching myself before I fall. Then I’m guided, though more like dragged, forward toward the front entryway as massive double doors are pulled open ahead of us.
Warm air spills out, hitting me all at once. The sudden temperature change sends a hard, uncontrollable shiver through my body. My teeth chatter as we cross the threshold, rainwater dripping from my clothes onto polished stone floors.
Half a dozen guards wait just inside the doorway. None of them are familiar, though none of them look all that surprised to see me, either. Their eyes track me with detached interest. One man steps forward, taller than the others, his presence commanding everyone’s attention immediately.
“This her?” he asks. His gaze sweeps over me slowly, critically, with a disregard that chills me deeper than the rain has. A thick scar runs down the left side of his face, puckering the skin around his mouth and pulling it into a permanent, cruel twist.
“Where’s my son?” I demand.
No one answers me.
One of the men gripping my arms says calmly, almost bored, “Yes. The boy should be right behind us.”
My heart lurches violently, hope and terror colliding so hard it nearly drops me to my knees. I yank against the restraints, desperation flooding through me.
“Let me see him, please,” I plead. “I want to see that he’s okay.”
Finally, the man with the scar looks at me again. “You will see your son when our boss says you can. Until that time, I suggest you shut the fuck up and do as you’re told.”
The words land like a slap.
They drag me deeper into the estate without another word. I’m brought down a hallway that stretches on forever, every step echoing off the marble floors. At the end of the hall stand two massive doors, dark wood reinforced with an iron filigree design wrapping around the borders.
The man with the scar reaches them first.
One gloved hand lifts, fingers curling around the handle on the left. He gives it one hard yank before it parts from the jamb. Light spills out in a warm, golden wash that feels obscene after the violence of being dragged here.
Inside, gold chandeliers glimmer overhead, their crystal facets catching the light and scattering it across richly paneled walls.
Persian rugs soften the floor beneath my feet when I step inside.
Leather chairs and polished tables are placed sparsely around the space.
Everything looks carefully curated to signal wealth.
The air is heavy with cigar smoke. It coats my tongue instantly, making my stomach churn. Waiting for me and lounging like this is just another evening event rather than a hostage exchange, are three men.
My gaze snaps first to the one on the left.
Carlo Toselli.
Don of the Palermo syndicate. A now former ally of the Cosenza family.
A man whose dinners Cesare once attended and whose handshakes once meant to be a signal of unity instead of divide.
He looks older than I remember, thicker through the waist, his hair long gone silver at his temples.
But his eyes are filled with that same sharp, calculating amusement he’s always carried.
Beside him sits Enzo.
My breath catches painfully in my throat.
The ghost behind Matteo’s death, the architect of the fracture that tore the Cosenza family apart. The man who turned Dante into someone harder, colder… someone capable of looking at me like I was the enemy.
Seeing him now is indescribable.
It’s validation wrapped in horror.
And now he’s smiling at me. It isn’t a smug grin. No, he smiles like we’re old friends reunited under unfortunate circumstances.
My hands curl into fists behind my back.
The third man sits slightly apart from the others whom I don’t recognize at all.