25. Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Three
Dante
The helicopter blades cut through the night sky, carrying us away from the yacht where Dominguez's cooling body serves as a warning to anyone who might consider touching what's mine.
Francesca sits across from me, her dress still speckled with blood. The diamond cufflink I took from Dominguez's lifeless wrist rests heavy in my pocket. The first trophy I've claimed since she entered my life.
That confession still burns in my throat.
I love you.
The words remain unacknowledged since I spoke them over Dominguez's corpse. Neither of us has mentioned it during our hasty departure from the yacht, during the cleanup arrangements, during the strategy session with Marco about our newly acquired port access.
But I feel the weight of those words in every glance she gives me. In every moment of silence that stretches between us.
Love . The weakness my father warned would destroy me.
Yet as I watch Francesca staring out the helicopter window, her pretty face illuminated by the aircraft's dim lighting, I feel no weakness.
"Stop thinking about it. I told you, you don't have to say it back," I tell her, voice barely audible over the thrum of the rotors. "But I meant what I said. I didn't say it to hear it from you."
She turns to me, her golden eyes painfully unreadable right now. "I know, Dante."
Before either of us can say more, my phone vibrates in my pocket. When I pull is out, I see it's the encrypted line reserved for urgent matters only.
"The ports are secured," Marco reports from the jump seat beside the pilot. "Codes have been changed. Ravelli access established. We'll have our men on the ground by sunrise."
I nod, acknowledging the victory while looking back to my phone. The screen displays a video message from an unknown number.
Something cold slides down my spine. Years of navigating the criminal underworld have honed my instincts, and right now, they're screaming danger.
"What is it?" Francesca asks, noticing my expression.
Instead of answering, I turn the phone's screen toward her as I press play.
The video begins with a black screen, then fades to reveal a concrete room with harsh lighting. The space is sparse. A metal chair bolted to the floor, a drain in the center of rough flooring.
I recognize the setup for what it is: an interrogation chamber designed for cleanup after messy work is completed.
A man sits bound to the chair, head hanging forward so his face isn't visible. But I know immediately who it is the second he lifts his head with a slight wobble.
Antonio Castellano Jr.
Francesca's brother.
"Oh my god," Francesca whispers, her body going rigid. "Antonio..."
The camera zooms in, revealing the full extent of his condition. His expensive suit is torn and stained, his face beaten nearly beyond recognition. One eye swollen shut, lips split and bleeding.
The pristine Castellano heir has been reduced to bloody pulp.
A gloved hand enters the frame, gripping Antonio's hair to yank his head back. His remaining good eye flutters open, focusing briefly on the camera. There's a desperation there that makes even my hardened heart clench with recognition.
I've seen that look before. In the eyes of men who know death approaches.
"Say hello to your sister, Mr. Castellano," a voice commands from off-camera. The accent is distinctly Russian. Volkov .
Antonio's split lips tremble. "F-Frannie..." he manages, blood bubbling between his teeth. "Don't... come... t-trap..."
The hand in his hair tightens, cutting off his warning. The camera pans out to show a muscular man standing behind Antonio, face deliberately kept out of frame.
"Dante Ravelli," the voice continues. "We have a proposition for you."
Francesca's hand finds mine, her fingers gripping with bruising intensity. I hold on just as tightly, anchoring her as the heart-shattering video continues.
"We have something you want," the voice says as Antonio's head is released, allowing him to slump forward again. "And you have something we want. A simple exchange."
The camera pans to a digital clock on the wall, displaying a timestamp from twelve hours ago.
"Bring us Nico Ravelli, and the Castellano boy lives. You have twenty-four hours to deliver him to the coordinates that will follow. Come alone. No weapons. No tricks."
The screen goes dark, then flickers back to show Antonio once more. The torturer leans down, his mouth near Antonio's ear though his face remains off-camera.
"Tell your sister what happens if they don't comply."
Antonio shakes his head weakly, earning him a vicious backhand that snaps his head to the side. Fresh blood sprays from his reopened wounds.
"Tell her!" the voice commands.
Antonio's remaining eye finds the camera, focusing with visible effort. "Frannie... they'll send me back to you in pieces," he whispers. "Starting with my eyes."
The video ends abruptly, replaced by a set of coordinates and a countdown clock. Twelve hours remaining .
Francesca's face has drained of all color, her eyes fixed on the now-dark screen with the horror of someone whose worst nightmare has materialized before them.
"Antonio," she whispers, her voice cracking in disbelief. "They have my brother."
I nod, squeezing her leg but I'm already making calculations, forming plans.
"Marco," I bark. "Redirect us to London. Now!"
Marco relays the command to the pilot, who immediately adjusts our course.
"We need to move quickly," I tell Francesca, already dialing Vladimir, my Volkov insider. "The video is clearly a day old. That leaves us limited time."
The phone rings several times before Vladimir answers, his voice uncharacteristically tense. "Mr. Ravelli."
"Tell me what the fuck is happening," I demand instantly.
Vladimir's heavy sigh carries through the line. "Well, as I understand it, your little brother has been stealing our shipments for months. Nico is playing both sides."
I process this information as fast as I can. "What shipments?"
"The heroin, Dante. The weapons leaving through Corsica. The workers moving through Belgrade." Vladimir's voice hardens. "Dmitri finally traced the losses back to Nico last week. He's been building his own operation. Using both Ravelli and Volkov routes without paying tribute to either."
The pieces begin to slot together, creating a picture I hadn't anticipated. Nico—the quiet brother, the peacemaker—building his own empire in secret.
I replay my meeting with him at the cigar lounge in Rome, examining every detail through this new lens. His carefully chosen words about the Volkovs' betrayal. The way he'd positioned himself as caught between Luca and me. Even the strategic reveal of those photos showing Dmitri at the mansion.
My brother had orchestrated the entire conversation. Fed me exactly what I needed to hear to keep my focus on the Volkovs and Luca, all while he built his own operation right under our noses.
But what does he actually want? Surely he can't want the same thing as me… Luca's throne?
Fuck.
Turns out, I've forgotten the most basic rule our father taught us: never trust a Ravelli.
"You think I knew about this?" I challenge.
"Dmitri isn't sure. But he wants Nico delivered for questioning." Vladimir's phrasing is deliberately euphemistic. We both know "questioning" means torture followed by execution. "The Castellano boy is leverage."
I search for the deeper game at play here. "And why take Antonio Castellano? Why not come directly to me?"
Vladimir's dry chuckle carries through the line. "Come now, Dante. We both know why. Your new queen's blood oath has made quite the splash in our circles. The Volkovs understand leverage better than most. And what better way to ensure your honest cooperation than through her?"
My jaw clenches as I glance at Francesca, who's leaning close to catch every word. The sight of her worried expression makes my blood boil.
"So you're using her brother to control me," I state flatly.
"Not me personally, but yes. The Volkovs know you'll act swiftly when it comes to your woman's happiness." Vladimir's tone turns knowing. "They've seen how... protective you are of what's yours. And now that she's bound to you by blood, her pain is your pain, no?"
I resist the urge to crush the phone in my grip. He's right. And that knowledge burns like acid in my veins.
The blood oath binds Francesca to me completely. Her brother's suffering will be her suffering. And despite everything my father taught me about emotional weakness, I can't bear the thought of her in pain.
"Tell Dmitri I want proof of life," I demand. "Current proof. Not some day-old video. I want to see Antonio breathing and conscious within the hour, or no deal."
"I'll relay the message." Vladimir pauses. "But remember, Dante—you have less than twelve hours before they start removing pieces of the boy. Dmitri won't wait."
I end the call without responding, turning to Francesca. Her eyes are hard with determination despite her obvious fear.
"We have to save him," she says immediately. "No matter what he's been involved in. No matter what deal you have to make with them. He's my brother, Dante."
"I know," I respond, reaching for her hand. "And we will."
Her fingers tighten around mine. "How? You heard Vladimir. They want Nico."
I meet her gaze directly. "Then we find Nico first."
By the time our helicopter lands at the London penthouse, I've initiated protocols across my organization. We enter the secure communications room, where Sophia already awaits with preliminary reports.
"The coordinates point to an abandoned factory outside St. Petersburg," Sophia reports, displaying satellite imagery on the main screen. "Heavy Volkov presence detected. At least twenty armed guards. Multiple approach vectors, all monitored."
"Antonio's condition?" I ask, watching Francesca from the corner of my eye.