Chapter 17
H is face hovers inches from mine, so close I can feel the warmth of his breath against my skin. My pulse thunders in my ears as I realize how little I would need to move—just a slight tilt forward and our lips would meet.
The thought freezes me in place.
His thumb traces my jawline, the calloused pad rough against my skin, sending electric currents down my spine. His dark eyes hold mine, intense and unguarded in a way I haven't seen before.
But somewhere in the back of my mind, his words from last night echo: hookups without strings or consequences.
I'm not that. I can't be that. Not when my life hangs in the balance, not when everything I've worked for depends on keeping a clear head.
"I should continue working," I whisper, my voice barely audible even in the quiet warehouse. "The encryption won't break itself."
His eyes drop to my lips, lingering there for a heartbeat that stretches into eternity. Something flashes across his face before he slowly releases my chin, his fingertips dragging slightly as they leave my skin.
"You're right," he says, his voice rougher than before. He rises to his feet in one fluid motion, putting distance between us that feels both necessary and unbearable.
I nod, unable to form words as I watch him retreat, taking the warmth with him.
I stare at Alessio's back as he walks away, his shoulders rigid with tension. The distance between us grows with each step, but the echo of his words remains, cutting deeper than he knows.
You really want to help those people.
It wasn't a question when he said it. And he's right. This has never been just about escaping Raymond or exposing my father. It goes deeper, to something embedded in my bones.
My mother taught me this—to see people, really see them. Not as assets or liabilities like my father does.
I remember being eight years old, watching Elena Vasquez get mocked for her accent and homemade clothes. Without thinking I stepped between her and the other girls. The next day I begged my mother for extra lunch money to share with Elena.
When I was fifteen I convinced our housekeeper to take my ‘outgrown’ designer clothes to her neighborhood. They weren't outgrown—I'd barely worn them. But the lie made the giving possible in my father's house where sharing was degrading.
Small rebellions. Tiny defiances against the Lombardi way.
And now... now I know what those tiny acts were preparing me for.
Somewhere right now a child is lying on a cold table. Somewhere a girl my age is being evaluated for the health of her kidneys or the condition of her heart.
My throat constricts. The warehouse blurs through sudden tears.
I try to swallow them back but a sob breaks free, raw and jagged. I press my palm against my mouth, trying to silence it, but it's too late. The dam breaks.
Tears stream down my face as I gasp for air. My shoulders shake with the force of it—this grief, this rage, this helplessness. I curl forward over the laptop, my forehead nearly touching the keyboard as I weep.
For the children who won't grow up. For the women who disappeared. For every person treated like inventory by men like Raymond and my father.
I don't try to hide the noise anymore. What's the point? My chest heaves with each sob, the pain flowing through me like a river breaking through ice.
I push through the rusted side door of the warehouse, gulping in the fresh air like a drowning man.
Fuck.
The cool metal of my lighter is a welcome distraction as I flick it open. I shouldn't be doing this—I quit smoking four months ago—but I found a half-empty pack of Cohibas stashed in one of the supply crates. Today calls for breaking promises made to myself.
The first drag burns my lungs in that familiar, punishing way. I exhale slowly, watching the smoke curl upward against the blue sky.
What the fuck was I thinking?
If she hadn't pulled away...
I take another drag, longer this time.
A sound breaks into my thoughts—keen and pained—coming from inside the warehouse. My body reacts before my mind processes, gun already in hand as I move silently along the perimeter wall.
I approach the window, staying low, and peer through the grimy glass. The warehouse interior is gloomy but I can make out Melania's silhouette at the table.
She's alone.
And she's sobbing.
Not the delicate tears of a society princess but gut-wrenching, body-shaking sobs that seem ripped from deep inside her. Her shoulders heave with every gasp. Her hands cover her face but they can't contain the raw sounds escaping her.
I holster my weapon, the adrenaline draining away, replaced by heaviness. And something I don't want to name.
This isn't the conniving woman who offered me thirty million dollars without blinking. This isn't the sharp-tongued captive who challenged me at every turn.
This is Melania stripped bare of all her defenses.
The reality of what she's discovered has finally hit her—not just intellectually but in her bones. The horror of what Raymond and her father have done. The lives destroyed. The innocence shattered.
I should go back inside. I should say something. Do something.
But what comfort can I offer? My hands are stained with blood too. Different blood, for different reasons—but still blood.
I take one last drag of the cigar before crushing it beneath my boot. The ember dies, leaving nothing but ash.
Through the window, I watch her break apart, knowing that whatever comes next, she won't be the same person who walked into that warehouse. Pain changes you. Strips away illusions. Makes you see the world for what it really is.
And once you see it, you can never unsee it.
Something primal stirs inside me—a need to protect, to shield, to destroy whatever causes her pain.
But I don't move. Not yet.
I wait, a silent guardian outside the window, giving her the privacy to shatter completely.
The timeline needs to accelerate. Raymond and Antonio need to pay—not just for their crimes against strangers but for what they've done to her. For turning her into both commodity and victim.
They'll die. That's not a question. It's a fucking promise.
But death is too simple, too quick. They need to suffer first. Need to watch their empire crumble. Need to feel the same helplessness their victims felt.
Melania's sobs begin to quiet. Her breathing slows, becomes more measured. She wipes her face with the back of her hand—a childlike gesture that makes my chest wring like laundry.
I step away from the window before she spots me. This moment belongs to her alone. I won't take that from her.
When I finally go back inside I'll be the same controlled, dangerous man she's come to know. I won't mention her tears or the way they've carved open a chasm inside me.
I'll push forward with our plans. I'll make calls. Set things in motion. Create a path through this darkness that leads to Antonio and Raymond's destruction.
Because watching Melania break has sealed their fate more certainly than any contract or vendetta ever could.
They're already dead men walking.
I stare at the laptop screen, my eyes burning from six straight hours of concentration. The progress bar finally reaches 100%, and my heart leaps as the first set of files unlocks.
"Got it," I whisper to myself, fingers flying across the keyboard.
I start copying the files to a secure partition I've created. Names, dates, locations— evidence of Raymond and my father's crimes—begin transferring over. Each filename represents a life destroyed, a person treated like nothing more than spare parts. Not all of them but we have something for now.
The first batch includes medical records. Blood types. Tissue compatibility charts. My stomach turns as I scroll through the data.
I'm so absorbed that I almost miss it—a tiny flicker in the code window I've kept open. The same anomaly I noticed before. A pattern that shouldn't be there.
My blood turns to ice.
I check the network traffic monitor. There it is—an outgoing ping. Microscopic. Nearly invisible.
But definitely there.
"Alessio!" I jump to my feet so fast the chair topples backward. "We need to leave. Now!"
Alessio's by the window, gun already in hand before I finish speaking. His body transforms from relaxed to lethal in an instant.
"What happened?" His voice is calm, but his eyes are scanning everything.
"The same anomaly in the code. Raymond's tracker activated again" I grab the laptop, yanking the power cord from the wall. "The copy is still running, I can't stop it without corrupting everything."
Alessio doesn't waste time with questions. He shoves his phone in his pocket, grabs the car keys, and checks his weapons.
"How long until they track us here?"
"Minutes. Maybe less." I clutch the laptop to my chest, the screen still showing the progress bar: 68% complete.
"We need to get to the car." He commands, moving toward the door.
I follow him, my heart a jackhammer against my chest. The copy needs to finish or we fail completely.
Alessio opens the warehouse door a crack, scanning the surroundings before pushing it wider.
"Stay behind me," he says, in that deadly quiet tone that means danger is close.
The laptop in my arms continues its work, the progress bar creeping forward as we move through the doorway toward our only escape.
We reach the Audi without incident. No alarms blaring. No screeching tires in the distance. The eerie quiet feels more threatening than chaos would.
"Get in," Alessio commands, taking a final survey of the perimeter.
I slide into the passenger seat, still clutching the laptop. The transfer continues its agonizing crawl: 75%. Alessio drops into the driver's seat, gun still in hand. He jams the key into the ignition and the engine purrs to life.
The tires squeal against pavement as we accelerate away from the warehouse. Alessio drives with one hand on the wheel, the other holding his weapon against his thigh. His eyes constantly flick to the rearview mirror.
"How much time?" he asks, voice tight as he takes a sharp turn that makes my stomach lurch.
I check the screen. "Twenty-three percent left to copy. Maybe four minutes? Five at most."
He nods once, jaw clenched as he pushes the Audi faster. The warehouse disappears behind us, swallowed by darkness. The speedometer climbs past ninety as we hit a straight stretch of road.
"Will the files be usable if we have to shut it down early?"
"The encryption sequence needs to complete or we might lose access to everything. Raymond's security system is... it's like nothing I've seen before."
The progress bar inches forward: 82%. My pulse matches its rhythm, each percentage point another heartbeat.
"Four minutes," Alessio mutters, more to himself than to me. His eyes narrow as he checks the mirrors again. "We need to get off this main road."
The laptop fan whirs louder as it processes the massive data transfer. 85%.
"The second the files copy, I just need to unplug the USB," I explain, eyes fixed on the progress bar crawling toward completion.
Alessio takes a sharp turn down a narrow side street, the Audi's tires protesting against the pavement. "Check first that we have the files intact before unplugging. I need to know we didn't go through all this for nothing."
The progress bar hits 90%. My fingers hover over the keyboard, ready to verify the data the moment it finishes.
"Come on," I whisper to the machine. Each percentage point feels like an eternity. 92%... 93%...
Alessio pulls his phone while keeping one hand firmly on the wheel. He dials without looking, muscle memory guiding his fingers.
"Damiano," he says the moment the call connects.
His voice shifts to Italian, words flowing faster than I can follow completely.
I catch fragments—"tracker activated," "moving locations," "files transferring.
" I haven't had the chance to speak or understand my own language since my father insisted that we needed to adjust to the Americans. We only spoke English at home.
I watch the progress bar hit 98% as Alessio falls silent, listening to whatever Damiano is saying on the other end.
"Call me again when you're clear," Alessio says finally, switching back to English. "We're alerted if you need backup."
He ends the call just as the laptop chimes softly. 100%.
"It's done," I announce, immediately opening the copied files to verify their integrity. My fingers skim across the keyboard, checking encryption signatures and file sizes. "Let me make sure everything transferred correctly."
I scan through the copied data, checking timestamps and file structures. The medical records are there. The victim profiles.
"We got it," I confirm, relief washing through me.
"Then unplug it," Alessio commands, eyes darting between the road ahead and the rearview mirror.
I eject the drive properly through the operating system, then carefully remove the USB from the port. The tiny device feels impossibly heavy in my palm—hundreds of lives, millions in cryptocurrency, and enough evidence to destroy my father and Raymond.
"We're off the grid again." I say, slipping the drive into my pocket and zipping it securely.