Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
NICO
The Bentley’s engine is a low growl that mirrors the violence coiling in my gut. Every mile that separates me from my house is an insult. Every second, a liability.
Alessandro’s words replay in the silent cabin, sharp as glass.
“She is your blind spot, Nicolás. You have lost focus. This obsession will be your downfall.” He wasn’t wrong.
Isabel played me. She dangled the Vancouver intel—a fabrication so obvious in hindsight—and I took the bait.
I, who prided myself on seeing every angle, on knowing every move before it was made, walked into a distraction designed for one purpose: to get me away from Lea.
The anger isn’t for Isabel, though she will pay.
It’s a cold fury directed at myself. I gave my enemy an opening.
I prioritized the turbulent, intoxicating chaos of my dynamic with Lea over the hard logic of the game.
I let a flicker of something I refuse to name cloud my judgment, and in this world, a moment’s distraction is a fatal error.
As the private road to the house comes into view, I see our men running around. My foot presses harder on the accelerator.
I bring the car to a hard stop at the main entrance; the tires protesting on the cobblestone. Blake is there before the engine is off, his face a stiff, professional veneer. He’s flanked by two of Alessandro’s men, their suits unable to hide the extra heavy hardware underneath.
“Report,” I bark, stepping out of the car. The cool night air feels charged.
“Perimeter breach, sir. East fence,” Blake says, his voice clipped. “A small, deliberate fire at the pump house. A diversion. We had it contained within seven minutes. The full sweep of the grounds is complete. The lockdown was effective. All personnel are accounted for.”
His report is a model of control restored, but every word grates. A diversion. Sophisticated. My eyes survey the house, a fortress that has been tested. An icy dread, alien and unwelcome, settles deep in my chest.
“Where is she?” My voice is flat.
Blake misreads the calm. “Secure, sir. She’s been in the master bedroom all day.”
Without another word, I move past Blake, my strides devouring the distance to the front door, the men scrambling to keep pace behind me. My focus is a laser aimed at the top floor, at the master suite.
I take the grand staircase two steps at a time, the rush of blood deafening. My mind is a storm of possibilities. Did she run? Did she conspire with Isabel? Was her passionate surrender all a final, masterful act? The thought is poison in my veins.
I burst through the double doors of the master suite, and the world stops.
The room is empty. However, instead of finding Lea in my bedroom, I see a scene of total chaos.
A heavy bedside lamp is overturned, its shade crushed.
Drawers are pulled out, their contents—silk and lace I bought for her—spilling onto the floor like entrails.
The sheets are torn and twisted. A vase of white roses lies shattered near the window, water pooling on the dark wood amidst the scattered petals.
This is a message. It screams of a struggle, a forced abduction.
In that instant, any suspicion of her complicity evaporates, incinerated by a rage so absolute it feels like ice. This is Moretti’s signature all over it: crude, loud, and devoid of subtlety.
Her confession of loyalty, her claim that she chose to belong to me—it wasn’t a lie. It was the truth, ripped from her by the fear of what lay outside my protection. A protection I failed to provide. My self-directed anger transforms, crystallizing into a lethal point of focus.
Dante Moretti has violated my home. He has put his hands on what is mine.
The insult is total. The fury is pure. This is no longer business. This is a personal war. The guilt over my distraction, over Alessandro’s warning, now fuels a fire that will burn Moretti’s world to the ground.
I pull out my phone, my movements deliberate. The screen illuminates my face in the dim, violated room. I dial Alessandro’s private number. He answers on the first ring.
No preamble.
“He has her,” I state, my voice a low, steady monotone. “Moretti came into my house and took her.”
A beat of silence on the other end as Alessandro processes the magnitude of the transgression. He understands that this is not a setback. It’s a fundamental shift.
“This is an act of war,” I continue. “I am burning his entire operation to the ground. Every front, every shell corporation, every political ally. I want nothing left but ashes. I need everything you have.”
Alessandro’s voice, when it comes, is as cold and somber as my own. “You have it. The council will be convened. The accounts will be opened. Whatever you need, Nicolás. Burn him down.”
I end the call and shift my focus to Blake hovering in the doorway, his face pale. He has overheard enough. He opens his mouth to speak.
“Get out,” I command, my voice a low command that cracks like a whip.
He wisely retreats, pulling the doors shut, leaving me alone in the desecrated space.
I walk to the shattered vase, my shoe crunching on the glass.
I stoop and pick up a single white rose petal.
It’s soft and bruised. A vow forms in the silent fury of my heart.
I will find her. I will bring her back. And I will deliver a retribution so absolute that the name Moretti will be spoken only as a cautionary tale.
My mind is already a whirlwind of tactical considerations. The sudden vibration of my phone against my palm is a jarring intrusion.
BLOCKED CALLER.
My policy is never to answer such calls. But an instinct I can’t explain compels me. I accept the call, bringing the phone to my ear without a word.
For a moment, there is only static. Then, a sound that splinters my composure. A sob. And my name.
“Nico?”
Lea’s voice. Thin, ragged, and laced with terror. Every plan evaporates. My world narrows to that single, desperate sound.
“Lea,” I breathe, my voice rough. “Where are you?”
“Oh god, Nico, they took me,” she sobs, and the sound ignites my rage. I picture her, terrified and alone, and the image is unbearable.
“Who? Who have you, Lea?” I demand, my voice low and coiled, already knowing the answer.
“Moretti’s men,” she cries, the words tumbling out. “They came into the house… they dragged me out. I’m so scared, Nico.”
Her words align with the violated room around me. But even through my fury, the strategist in me latches onto one inconsistency.
“How are you calling me?” I ask, the question sharp, a test even now. “Where did you get a phone?”
I hear a gasping breath. “One of them… one of the guards,” she stammers. “He was careless. He was mocking me with it, showing me… pictures… When another man called him away, he dropped it. I grabbed it. Nico, I don’t have much time.”
I close my eyes. The explanation is plausible, reeking of the sloppy arrogance I expect from Moretti’s thugs. The thought of one of his men taunting her sends a fresh wave of possessive rage through me so visceral I can taste it. The story holds. It solidifies my purpose.
“Good girl,” I say, my praise a possessive growl. “Now talk to me. Where are you? Give me a location.”
“I don’t know… some kind of factory?” she says, her voice strained. “It’s huge and old… smells like rust and metal.” A pause, then a sharp intake of breath. “A sign… I saw a sign. Something about… Sterling Steel? At a place called… the Mill.”
I know it. A derelict industrial park on the Southeast Side. Abandoned. Isolated. A perfect kill box. Moretti has no imagination. He thinks this is a simple ambush. He doesn’t realize he has invited me to a battle on a field of my choosing.
“I’m on my way,” I state, my voice now devoid of all feeling but lethal intent. My mind is already mapping the area, calculating force deployment, entry points, sniper positions. “Destroy the phone. Now. Break it and get rid of the pieces. Do you understand?”
“Please hurry,” she says, a final, broken plea.
The line goes dead.
I lower the phone, turn from the wreckage of the room, my face a mask of cold fury, and stride to the door. I pull it open to find Blake waiting, his expression drawn and expectant. He sees the look on my face and straightens, ready for orders.
My voice is deadly quiet.
“Get the armory. We’re going to war.” I pause, my gaze locking onto him. “This is the second time my security has failed under your watch. Marco is dead. Lea is gone. There will not be a third. Fail me again, and you won’t be fired. You’ll be joining Domingo for your own… appointment.”
The threat is colder than any promise of death. Blake just nods, his face pale but his expression set. “Understood, sir.”