Chapter 36 Renato
Camilla has been upstairs for two days now, emerging only once for that swim that felt like both salvation and torture.
I should be at home sleeping, or at least pretending to sleep, but instead I'm standing in front of a man zip-tied to a chair while Matteo breaks his fingers one by one.
"The buyer's name," I say again, my voice calm despite the violence. "The man Torretti was planning to deliver her to."
"I already told you," he gasps, his face slick with sweat and tears. "Khalid Al-Zahrani. Dubai businessman. Legitimate real estate empire, but he specializes in private acquisitions."
"I know the family name. What I need is his current location."
"He travels constantly. Dubai, London, Paris—"
Matteo breaks another finger. The scream echoes off concrete walls.
"Current location," I repeat. "Not his damn travel itinerary."
"Rome! He's in Rome!" The words pour out in a desperate rush. "Palazzo Vittoria, penthouse suite! He's there now, waiting for updates on the delivery that never happened!"
"And he paid how much for her?"
"Five million euros. Down payment on seventeen million total. He wanted to win the auction."
Seventeen million. For Camilla. For the right to own her.
"Tell me about Al-Zahrani. Everything."
The accountant swallows hard, cradling his broken hand. "Mid-forties. Third son of a prominent Dubai family. Legitimate wealth from real estate and construction. But he has particular tastes. Collects women like art. Keeps them in a private compound outside Dubai."
"How many women?"
"I don't know exact numbers. Six? Eight? European women mostly. He likes variety but prefers Italian and French." His voice shakes. "Torretti supplied three others to him over the past two years."
Three other women. Three other lives destroyed to feed this man's collection.
"Security detail?"
"Two bodyguards. Former military, licensed to carry. They're staying in connecting rooms on the same floor."
"Weaknesses?"
"He's arrogant. Thinks his money protects him. Thinks Italian law enforcement won't touch a foreign businessman spending millions in luxury hotels." The accountant's eyes dart between me and Matteo. "He dismisses the bodyguards sometimes. When he's in the penthouse with company."
"What kind of company?"
"Escorts. High-end services. He uses them while waiting for his permanent acquisitions to arrive."
Of course he does. A man who buys women wouldn't see prostitutes as human either.
"Anyone else involved in the transaction?"
"Just Torretti's people. The broker who connected Alessandro to Torretti, the transport team, the facility staff where they prepared her—" He catches himself. "Where they were going to prepare her."
"Names. All of them."
He rattles off a list while Matteo writes it down. Eight people total who knew about the sale. Eight people who facilitated the attempted trafficking of her.
"What was Al-Zahrani planning to do with her?"
The accountant hesitates. Matteo reaches for another finger.
"Wait! He had specific plans. The compound in Dubai has a section for new acquisitions.
Isolation period first, then training. He likes them compliant.
Broken in gradually." His voice drops. "Torretti said Camilla would be perfect because of her breeding.
Italian aristocrat—it adds value in his collection. "
"How long has he been in Rome?"
"Three days. He came early to finalize arrangements personally. Torretti promised delivery yesterday morning."
He's been sitting in that luxury suite for three days, waiting for Camilla to be delivered like a package. Probably sipping champagne and using escorts to pass the time while he anticipates adding her to his collection.
The raw fury building in my chest is beyond anything I've felt before. This isn't just about eliminating a threat.
This is goddamn personal.
This man thought he could own her. Thought his money bought him the right to break her, train her, add her to his collection of human trophies.
"Is he expecting contact from Torretti?"
"Yes. Daily updates. But Torretti's dead, so..." The accountant trails off, understanding dawning. "Al-Zahrani doesn't know the deal fell through. He's still waiting."
Perfect.
"Matteo, I need hotel floor plans. Security schedules. Service access points." I check my watch. "We move tonight."
"Boss, that's a high-profile location. Lots of witnesses, security cameras."
"I don't care. He's been sitting in a luxury hotel for three days, waiting to own her. That requires an answer."
By the time dawn breaks, I have everything I need. Hotel layouts from contacts in building services. Security rotation schedules from a helpful concierge who owes me favors. A clear picture of the penthouse level and how to access it.
The Palazzo Vittoria is one of Rome's finest. Five-star luxury, discreet service, the kind of place where wealthy guests expect absolute privacy. Which means security is professional but not military-grade. They're there to provide safety, not defend against a determined assault.
"Service entrance here," Matteo points to the floor plans. "Leads to the kitchen, then service elevators to the penthouse level. We can get uniforms, blend in as hotel staff."
"Time it for early evening. When he's likely to be in the suite between appointments."
"The bodyguards?"
"We handle them quietly. I want Al-Zahrani alone and terrified when I walk in."
Matteo studies me for a long moment. "This one's different for you."
"He was going to own her. Forever. That's different enough."
"And if this goes wrong? If we get caught in a luxury hotel killing a foreign businessman?"
"Then we deal with the consequences." I fold up the plans. "But he's not walking out of that suite alive. That's not negotiable."
I drive back to the villa as the sun rises, my mind already working through the execution. This has to be clean but personal. Quick but devastating. A message to anyone else who might have heard about Torretti's failed delivery.
The work calms me in a way nothing else does. Clear objective, identifiable target, a problem that can be solved with violence and precision. Unlike the impossible problem upstairs who holds my entire future in her hands.
Back at the villa, I dismiss the household staff for the day. I need the illusion of normalcy, need to pretend I'm more than just a man planning murder before breakfast.
The shower is scalding, washing away the warehouse dirt and the accountant's blood. I scrub my hands until they're raw, trying to prepare myself for what comes next.
Not the violence—I'm always ready for that.
But the after.
Coming home to her with blood on my hands and truth in my eyes.
One man. One death. One message that Camilla Colombo was never for sale.
I dress in grey sweatpants and nothing else, too tired for anything more formal. My reflection in the mirror shows a man who hasn't slept properly in days. Exhausted eyes, tension in every line of my face, the weight of planned violence sitting heavy on my shoulders.
This is who I am.
This is who I'll always be.
The question is whether she can live with that.