Chapter 22 Santino
The call comes twenty minutes after Dominic arrives at the social club, twenty minutes of tense silence and mounting rage.
We're huddled around the scarred wooden table—me, Dominic, his men, my crew. Everyone's armed. Everyone's angry. The air is thick with violence waiting to be unleashed.
My phone rings from the unknown number. I answer immediately and put it on speaker so everyone can hear.
"Marcello." The voice on the other end is cold, confident. "I assume you got our message."
"Who is this?" I keep my voice steady even though my hands are shaking with suppressed fury.
"Roberto Benedetti. And I have something you want back."
Benedetti.
Fuck. Of course it's the Benedettis.
I should have seen this coming from a mile away. Bruno warned me about them. Paulie warned me. They all warned me the Benedettis were planning something, making moves.
I just never thought they'd go this far. Never thought they'd be stupid enough to kidnap a Don's daughter.
"Where is she?" I demand, my voice sharp.
"Alive. For now." He pauses deliberately, letting that sink in. "Whether she stays that way depends entirely on you."
Dominic's face goes dark, murderous intent written in every line. His hand moves instinctively toward his gun but I shake my head sharply. Not yet. Not while they have her.
"What do you want?" I ask.
"A conversation. Face to face." Roberto sounds almost amused by this entire situation. "You and me. We discuss terms like civilized men."
"Terms for what?"
"For everything. The port operations. The shipping routes. Access to your distribution network. And most importantly, you staying the fuck out of Benedetti business permanently."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then you'll be shopping for a new fiancée. I hear the Costa girl won't be available anymore." The threat is casual, conversational, which makes it even more chilling.
Rage burns through me—white hot and blinding, threatening to override all rational thought.
Dominic's hand is definitely on his gun now, his knuckles white with the force of his grip. His men are tense, coiled like springs. Ready to move at his signal.
"Don't hurt her," I say through gritted teeth, forcing the words out.
"Then don't give me a reason to." Roberto's voice hardens, losing its amused edge. "Tonight. Eleven PM. Warehouse Twelve at the port. You know where that is?"
"I know it." One of the older structures, isolated from the main operations.
"Come alone. Just you. No Costa men. No crew. No army of soldiers riding to the rescue. You bring anyone, and I put a bullet in her head before you even get through the door. Understand?"
"I understand perfectly."
"Good. Oh, and Marcello? Don't be late. She's getting very uncomfortable tied to this chair. Would be a shame if her condition deteriorated before you arrived."
The line goes dead.
I stare at the phone, every muscle in my body coiled tight, ready to explode into violence.
"Warehouse Twelve," Dominic says immediately, his mind already working through tactical options. "I know it. We can position men around the perimeter. Hit them from multiple angles before they know what's happening—"
"No." I cut him off firmly.
"No?" His eyes flash dangerously. "That's my daughter in there—"
"I know whose daughter she is." I meet his gaze without flinching. "But if we go in guns blazing, she dies in the crossfire. You know that as well as I do."
I can see the acknowledgment in his eyes. He knows I'm right.
"He wants me alone," I continue, my voice steady now. "So, I'll go alone."
"The hell you will," Bruno interjects sharply. "Boss, this is a trap. Obviously. They'll kill you both the moment you walk through that door."
"They want to negotiate. If they wanted us dead, Liana would already be gone and they'd be sending pieces of her to make their point."
"You don't know that," Tommy argues from across the table. "The Benedettis are desperate. Desperate men do desperate, stupid things."
"Which is exactly why we can't risk her life with a tactical assault." I stand, my decision made. "I'm going. Alone. That's final."
"Santino—" Dominic starts.
"This is my fault." My voice cracks slightly, the guilt flooding through me. "I should have gone to her hours ago when she texted me. I should have believed her. I didn't, and now she's in there because of my failure. I'm going to get her out."
Silence falls over the room, heavy and uncomfortable.
Dominic stares at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he nods slowly.
"You get her out alive," he says quietly, but the threat beneath the words is unmistakable. "Or don't come back at all."
"Understood, sir."
The next two hours are agony, each minute crawling by like an hour.
We plan. We strategize. We go over every possible scenario, every contingency.
Dominic's men will be nearby—not close enough for the Benedettis to spot, but close enough to move fast if things go wrong. A perimeter, not an assault team.
My crew protests loudly. They want to come with me, want backup inside the building. I refuse every suggestion.
This is between me and Roberto Benedetti. This is my mistake to fix.
At ten thirty, I get ready, checking my weapons. Gun in my shoulder holster. Another at the small of my back. Knife in my boot.
"You walk in there and they'll search you," Bruno says, watching me prepare. "They’ll take all of it. You'll be unarmed. Surrounded. Outnumbered."
"I know."
"This is insane. Suicidal."
"It's Liana." I look at him directly. "What else can I do?"
He doesn't answer, because we both know there's no other choice. At ten forty-five, I head to the port, driving through the empty streets. The drive feels endless, time stretching impossibly. Every red light an eternity. Every turn taking me closer to whatever's waiting.
I keep seeing her face in that photo they sent—scared, hurt, alone, waiting for help that didn't come.
Because of me. All of this is because of me.
I park outside Warehouse Twelve at exactly 10:58.
The building looms above me—dark, massive, one of the older structures at the port that should have been condemned years ago. I can see light filtering through the windows on the second floor, yellow and flickering.
They're up there. Waiting for me.
I take a deep breath, forcing my racing heart to slow. Check my phone one last time.
A text from Bruno: We're in position. Give the signal and we move.
I type back: Not unless I signal. No matter what you hear.
Then I pocket my phone and walk toward the entrance. The door is unlocked, opening with a groan of rusted hinges. Inside, it's dark and smells like rust and old machinery and decay.
"Marcello!" A voice echoes from somewhere above me. "Second floor. Take the stairs."
I find the staircase easily—metal, industrial, each step clanging under my boots like a bell announcing my arrival.
At the top, two men wait for me. Young, heavily armed, nervous energy radiating off them.
"Hands up," one of them orders.
I raise my hands slowly, making no sudden movements. They search me thoroughly. Find both guns and the knife.
"He's clean," one calls out to someone I can't see.
"Send him in," the voice responds.
They push me toward a door. It opens into a large open space that must have once been the warehouse office.
The space has been converted into something else. There's a table in the center. Chairs arranged around it. Lights rigged from the ceiling, creating harsh shadows.
And standing in the center, surrounded by four armed men positioned strategically, is Roberto Benedetti.
He's older than I expected—maybe sixty, with silver hair swept back from his face. Sharp suit that looks expensive. The kind of man who looks like a legitimate businessman, not a criminal.
But his eyes are cold and dead.
"Marcello." He doesn't extend his hand for a greeting. "Right on time. I appreciate punctuality in business dealings."
"Where is she?" I look around the room, but it's empty except for us and his men.
"Nearby and safe. First, we talk about the terms."
"We have nothing to talk about until I see her. Proof of life, non-negotiable."
Roberto smiles, and it doesn't reach his eyes. "You're not in a position to make demands."
"Neither are you." I step closer, refusing to show fear. "You took Liana to get leverage over me. Fine. You have it. But if you hurt her, if she's already dead, then you have nothing. And this warehouse becomes your grave."
He studies me for a moment, calculating. Then nods to one of his men. "Bring her in."
The man disappears through a door at the back of the room. Footsteps echo. Voices murmur. Then the door opens again. And they walk her in.
Liana.
She's alive. Thank God, she's alive.
But she looks terrible, and the sight makes my chest constrict painfully.
Her face is pale and tear-streaked, mascara smudged down her cheeks. Her hair is a tangled mess. Her wrists are free now—no zip ties visible—but rubbed raw and bleeding from where they'd been bound for hours.
And a man from Roberto’s team has a gun pressed firmly against her temple.
"Santino!" She sobs when she sees me, her voice breaking. "Santino, please—"
"Shut up," he snaps, pressing the gun harder against her head.
Every instinct I have screams to move, to attack, to kill him with my bare hands.
But I can't. Not with that gun to her head. One wrong move and she dies.
"Let her go," I say to Roberto. "You want to negotiate? Fine. We'll negotiate. But let her go first."
"Not how this works, I'm afraid." Roberto walks over to Liana slowly, looking her up and down like she's merchandise he's considering purchasing. "She stays right here. Where I can see her. Where you can see her. Motivation for both of us to play nice and be reasonable."
"I'm here. Like you asked. Alone. I did exactly what you wanted."
"And now we talk business like civilized men." He gestures to the table. "Sit."
"No."
"Sit," he repeats, his voice hardening. "Or he puts a bullet in her pretty head right now."