Chapter 30 Leonardo
Leonardo
She’s taken my phone and stolen a car. Eleanor fucking took my phone and drove off alone, and I’m losing my goddamned mind. What the hell is she thinking? What is she planning to do with nothing but my phone and a damn SUV? Is she going to take on the Albanians alone?
I glance at Carmela’s phone, which I’ve commandeered. Nothing from Emilio. Nothing from Leo. Nothing from any of Dad’s men. No one’s found her.
No calls, no goddamn messages. I know she’s scared for Juliet, but this? This is fucking reckless.
The mansion feels like a desert, an empty, impersonal wasteland. The floor echoes under my pacing feet. No one knows where she is. I’m going to kill her for this if I don’t lose my mind first.
Half of New York’s underworld is on a wild goose chase for Eleanor Price, and still no one's caught up to her. I’ve diverted almost everyone from searching for Juliet to searching for Eleanor before she does something that gets her killed.
I’ve pulled men from the fighting ring, from the docks, from Il Lusso itself, and still, not a single whisper of where the hell she is.
I’m losing patience with these useless bastards as fast as I’m losing patience with Eleanor.
The second she's safe, I swear to God, I'm going to wrap my hands around that stubborn little neck of hers. I’m going to kill her as soon as I have her safe in my arms again.
The wait is eating me alive, and Eleanor is going to pay for every goddamn second.
I stop pacing long enough to punch a nearby wall in frustration. Nothing. I’ve told the men to call me on Carmela's number first, no matter what. I need to be the first to know she’s safe. I need to be the first one to see her. I need to be the first one to...
Nothing. No call. No message. Nothing.
It’s been forty minutes. Forty minutes since that woman blindsided me.
Since she ran off without a trace and left my entire life in chaos.
I don’t even know why the guards let her out the front gate, but I know for sure they’ll regret it.
The longer I stand here, the more I’m ready to tear this place apart and everyone inside it if she's not back soon.
I should have tied her to the bed. I should have tied her to my fucking side.
I start pacing again, furious with myself for letting her think for one second that I don't have this under control.
She didn't trust me to handle it. She didn’t even trust me to protect her sister.
Does she think I'm jacking off out here while she's out there facing down the whole Albanian cartel with nothing but a car and a phone? If she doesn’t get back soon, I’m going to. ..
The door swings open. Juliet bursts through the grand mansion doors with tangled hair and wide, panicked eyes.
Her dress is ripped at the shoulder, thin fabric stained and hanging loose around her shivering frame.
She looks terrible. Her pale skin is smudged with dirt, her cheeks hollow.
Rosetti men flank her like a ragged army escort.
An ugly red marks the skin at her wrists.
Her panic spills out in an uncontrolled, breathless cry.
"Leonardo!"
Her voice echoes through the hall, and instantly, a chill seizes my veins. How the fuck did Juliet get free?
"One of our patrols picked her up down by the docks," a guard tells me.
I ignore him and cross straight to Juliet. "Where is my wife?" I demand slowly.
Juliet collapses to her knees, her breath coming in desperate, frantic gulps. "Eleanor," she gasps, her hands clutching at the air as if grasping for the right words. "She... she traded herself for me. The Albanians had me, and she just turned up and said they could have her if they—"
"I asked where." My voice cuts through her panic, sharp and deadly quiet.
"At a warehouse in Hunts Point.” Her words slam into me like a fist, and I bolt past her, my heart a furious drum.
"You’re coming with me." My feet barely touch the ground as I tear down the long, empty hallway, the echo of my footsteps a rapid-fire pulse in my ears.
I bark orders, my voice ringing off the cold marble.
Rosetti men snap into action, weapons drawn, following like a black-suited storm as we pile into the SUVs.
The drive to the warehouse is a blur, my knuckles white around the grip of my gun.
What has Eleanor she done? Why does she need to martyr herself all the fucking time? Why can’t she stay in one place when she’s told and keep safe?
She broke every fucking rule. Lied. Ran. Let the fucking Albanians touch her. And now? Now she’s in their hands.
By the time we reach the docks, I’m vibrating with barely restrained violence.
The warehouse is quiet, too quiet. Bad fucking sign.
I signal my men, and we fan out, moving in silent coordination.
Two guards outside—amateurs. I take the first one myself, a blade to the throat before he can make a sound.
The second barely has time to reach for his gun before Matteo puts a silenced bullet between his eyes.
We slip inside through a side entrance, shadows swallowing us whole. The air stinks of oil, blood and sweat. My heartbeat is a steady drum, but my pulse is fire, burning through my veins.
I hear them before I see them—low voices, the scrape of a chair. And then Eleanor. “At least offer me a cup of tea,” she says, sounding elegant as fuck.
Her knees are scraped, raw patches of skin against the dirty floor.
There's blood on her hands, more than from the scrapes, like she'd fought her way out of somewhere only to end up here. She must have given them hell. Her dress—a slick, turquoise thing I’d seen on her just this morning—is torn at the hem and stained with spots of crimson.
She's barefoot and filthy, but her eyes are glacial fire, refusing to show an ounce of defeat.
They thought they could break her. They don't know Eleanor.
She’s standing rigid, face lifted in defiance, while that Albanian fuck holds her chin between his fingers like she’s some kind of prize. Something primal snaps inside me.
No hesitation. I raise my gun and put a bullet through his skull.
Chaos erupts. The second his body hits the floor, his men scramble for weapons, but we’re faster.
The air explodes with gunfire, shouts, and the wet sounds of bodies hitting concrete.
I move through it all, a predator unleashed, taking out anyone who gets in my way.
A bullet grazes my arm, the sting barely registering through the red haze in my mind.
One by one, they fall, blood splattering the walls, pooling on the floor. I keep moving forward, toward her.
She’s still standing there, frozen, her wide eyes locked on me.
“Eleanor,” I rasp, stepping over a body.
Her lips part like she wants to say something, but then a figure lunges from the side—a last desperate Albanian. My instincts take over. I grab the fucker by the throat, slam him against the wall, and put a bullet in his gut, letting him slide down in a heap.
Then, finally, I reach her.
My hands are on her the moment I'm close enough to touch her. They're frantic, and I don’t give a shit if she knows it. I’m checking for wounds, for bruises, for any sign that those bastards hurt her in any way.
I squeeze her arms—too hard, too desperate—searching for anything that might be broken.
Those bastards touched her, those fuckers laid hands on my wife, and I’ll make them pay a thousand times over if she’s hurt.
I’ll take their lives, their families, and burn their entire fucking world to the ground if they left a single mark on her.
My mind is a blur of rage and panic. Her dress is slick, but I can’t tell if it’s her blood, if she’s bleeding out right in front of me while I stand here with my useless hands.
Her skin is pale—too pale—and smeared with dirt.
Her hair’s a fucking mess, and I want to wrap all of her up in my arms, shield her from the world, but I need to know she’s okay first. I need to know she’s whole.
I didn’t make it in time. I didn’t stop them before they took her and tied her up and left her looking like this. I didn’t fucking protect her.
My chest is so tight I can’t breathe. Her eyes are still locked on mine, and I can’t fucking read them, can’t look deep enough to find the answer I’m dying for.
Why can’t she say something, give me even a word so I know she’s still here with me?
I’m going out of my mind trying to see if she’s okay, and all I’ve got is silence.
I can’t stand it.
“Are you okay?” My voice is sharp, edged with fear.
She blinks, swallows hard. “You came,” she whispers.
I cup her face, my thumb brushing a smear of blood that isn’t hers from her cheek. “Of course I fucking came.” The words are too raw, too close to something I don’t want to name.
She stares at me, her chest rising and falling too fast, her eyes searching mine for reassurance. “I was so scared you wouldn’t make it in time,” she admits, her voice cracking slightly.
I meet her gaze firmly. “I would never let anything happen to you. Not now, not ever.”
Her grip tightens on my jacket, and then, without warning, she surges forward, pressing her face against my chest. Not crying, not speaking—just holding on.
I wrap my arms around her, harder than I should, pulling her delicate, shivering frame against me.
Her trembles send a jolt of anger and relief and need through my own body, the fear she won’t hold it together making my grip even tighter.
I can feel the quick, frantic rhythm of her heart against my chest, the fast rise and fall of her breaths against me.
But she's here. She’s flesh and blood beneath my touch, and she’s real.
God, I need her. I need her more than air, more than anything else this life can offer, and I don’t care that she knows it.
I soak in her scent, her warmth, the wild tangle of her hair. The thought of never holding her like this again had torn me apart. I can’t keep the edge of panic out of my voice as I hold her, as I let her take up every last corner of my world.
“You’re safe now,” I murmur softly into her hair. I let her stand there, just holding onto me. I let her, because she’s mine. And anyone who tries to take her from me again will fucking die.