51. Graham
51
GRAHAM
We pull up to Florence’s house too many hours later. Time was the enemy on that goddamn flight. Every minute felt like a stolen hour. But it doesn’t matter now, because we’re finally here.
I park the car a few houses down, on the backside of the street. We spent a third of the flight discussing the best way to go about this. We’re outnumbered with our hands tied for all the information we have. But I’ve done more with less before. And none of those times involved Francesca. I could power this entire neighborhood on my determination alone.
The street is dark and quiet, the houses looming like silent sentinels in the night. Florence’s house sits at the end of the cul-de-sac, a sprawling estate of stone and glass, all sharp angles and cold elegance.
Beau lets out a low whistle as he takes it in. “Damn. You still wanna just waltz up to the front door?”
I don’t respond, my gaze fixed on the house. Searching for any sign of movement, any hint of what awaits us inside. But half the windows are dark, the curtains mostly drawn.
My wife is here. I can feel it. But even if I couldn’t, I still have a tracker on her phone. And it’s blinking to life inside this mammoth house.
A slow, lethal breath moves through me.
Beau cracks his knuckles. “So, smash and grab?”
I shake my head, my voice low and even. “No. We go in quiet. No one sees us coming until it’s too late.”
Beau nods once, his expression turning serious. “Lead the way.”
We slide out of the car, the doors clicking shut with barely a sound. The night air is crisp and cool, the moon hanging low and heavy in the sky. It bathes everything in an ethereal glow, casting long shadows across the manicured lawns.
I motion for Beau to follow me as I move toward the house, my footsteps silent against the grass, bats slung over our shoulders. We obviously couldn’t bring them on the plane, but when we stopped at one of those fancy truck stops for food, Beau spotted them. They’re not as good as the ones we left in Beau’s car back home, but they’ll do the job just the same.
We stick to the shadows as we approach the house, skirting along the tree line at the edge of the property. Every sense is on high alert, my muscles coiled tight and ready to strike at the first sign of trouble.
As we draw closer, I can make out more details. The ornate front door, the wrought-iron fence surrounding the perimeter, a couple of security cameras perched in the corners.
I pause at the corner of the house, pressing my back against the cool stone. Beau mirrors my position on the other side. Our eyes meet for a split second, an unspoken understanding passing between us.
I hold up a hand, signaling for Beau to wait, then duck my head around the corner. The side yard is empty, no signs of security or surveillance beyond the cameras. I motion Beau forward and we move together, low and fast, skirting along the side of the house until we reach a set of French doors leading to what looks like a sunroom.
I test the handle, surprised to find it unlocked. I ease the door open, scanning the darkened interior for any signs of an alarm or motion sensors. Nothing. Amateurs.
We slip inside, closing the door silently behind us. The room is shrouded in shadows, the only light coming from the faint glow of the moon through the windows. I blink, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness as I take in our surroundings.
Expensive furniture, tasteful art on the walls, a grand piano in the corner. It all screams wealth and privilege, the kind of luxury that’s meant to be admired from a distance. But there’s no warmth here, no sense of home or family. Just cold, calculated perfection.
Beau moves to my side. “Where should we start?”
I pull out my phone and open the app. I tilt the screen toward him and motion toward the door with my head. Before I take a step forward, his hand clamps onto my shoulder.
“Wait.”
I arch a brow, impatience pounding against my temples.
“She hasn’t replied, right? I bet she doesn’t have her phone.”
I glance down at the phone in my hand, Francesca’s tracker blinking steadily on the screen. Beau’s right. If she had her phone, she would have responded by now. The fact that she hasn’t means she can’t.
“We follow the tracker.” It’ll lead us to someone. And that person will lead us to my wife.
A muscle in my jaw ticks as I slip the phone back into my pocket and motion for Beau to follow me. We move through the house like shadows, silent and efficient. I lead us through a formal dining, and I see a flash of movement in the hallway ahead.
Golden-colored hair.
“Francesca.” It’s a whispered plea, slipping out of my mouth out of shock.
The figure turns toward us, but it’s not my wife. It’s Florence.
She stands at the edge of the hallway, half in shadow, hands clenching the doorway like it’s the only thing keeping her upright. Her face is pale, her eyes red-rimmed, but I don’t give a shit about her tears.
I storm down the hallway, my voice quiet but sharp. A blade in the dark. “Where is she?”
Florence flinches, and I reign myself in a little. For half a second, she hesitates. Then she exhales, shoulders sagging, and whispers, “They have her locked in here.”
My pulse kicks up, but I don’t move yet. She shifts, fingers flexing against the wood. “I tried to stop them,” she says, voice rough. “I swear I did.”
I don’t care. I don’t have time for her guilt. I step forward. She flinches again.
“Show me.” It’s a low command.
Florence hurries down the hall, pulling open the door at the end with trembling fingers. The room beyond is dark, only a sliver of moonlight spilling through the curtains.
I brush past Florence, my eyes scanning the shadows. And there, curled up on a settee beneath the window, is my wife.
“Francesca.” Her name rips from my throat, half prayer, half plea.
She jolts upright, breath catching in her throat. Her eyes flick over me, like she’s trying to convince herself I’m real. Like she wants to believe it but doesn’t dare.
“Graham?” It’s a whisper, breathless and raw against my neck.
I sink to my knees, my hands framing her face, tilting it up so I can see her, can feel that she’s really here. My eyes rove over her features, cataloging every detail, every emotion flickering across her face, searching for any sign of injury.
A choked sound escapes her lips as she clings to me like she’ll never let go.
“Are you hurt?” My voice is raw, barely controlled.
She shakes her head, her fingers curling around my wrists like she needs to anchor herself. “I knew you’d come.” Her breath hitches. “I knew?—”
I cut her off with my mouth, the kiss hard and desperate. Francesca makes a soft sound in the back of her throat, and I swallow it whole.
She clings to me, her fingers tangling in my hair as she returns the kiss with equal fervor. I pour everything into it. My fear, my relief, my love.
I pull away from here, murmuring, “Goddamn, do I love you.”
She chuckles, this watery sound that pinches the tender space around my heart.
“I love you. And you were right. I never should’ve come.” Her eyes well up a little.
I press my forehead to hers, my thumbs stroking over the delicate skin of her cheeks. “I will always come for you. Always.”
Beau clears his throat behind us. “As touching as this is, let’s save it for the car ride home, yeah, bro?”
Francesca nods against my forehead, her fingers gripping my wrists tighter. “He’s right. We need to go, now. Before they realize you’re here.”
I pull back just enough to meet her gaze. “What happened?”
She swallows hard, a shudder rippling through her. “My mother. She threatened you, your family. Said she’d make you pay if I didn’t . . .” Her voice breaks, tears spilling over. “If I didn’t annul our marriage and go back to Giovanni.”
White hot rage sears through my veins. “Don’t worry about him. He doesn’t matter.” Revenge is best served in zeroes and ones.
I help Francesca to her feet, my hands lingering on her waist as I scan her from head to toe, searching for any other signs of harm. That’s when I notice the bruises. Dark, ugly marks ringing her delicate wrists, unmistakable fingerprints pressed into her skin.
My vision tunnels, narrowing to pinpricks of red. Rage, pure and unfiltered, roars through my veins like wildfire. “Who did this to you?”
She shakes her head, pushing against my chest like she’s trying to herd me out the door. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s just go.”
“Gio.” It’s a bark from Florence, who’s still in the corner of the room. I’d all but forgotten she was here. “And he’s in the study on the other side of the house. You’ll pass it on your way out.”
“Florence,” Francesca hisses.
Florence lifts her shoulder in a lazy shrug. “He deserves it.”
For once, I agree with my wife’s sister. My jaw clenches as I hand Francesca the car keys. “Go to the car and wait. It’s three houses down, on the left. Get in, lock the doors. Wait for me.”
She nods, pushing onto her toes and brushing her lips against mine. “Hurry, okay?” She turns toward her sister. “Are you in or out?”
Florence steps toward my wife, a suitcase at her feet. “I’m in.”
“Then let’s go.” Francesca grabs her sister’s hand, and they leave out the French doors.
Beau sighs, rolling his shoulders. “We doing this?”
I don’t answer him with words. Instead, I prowl through the house, back toward where we came in.
He chuckles under his breath. “Guess that’s a yes.”
Coincidentally, it leads me to the blinking dot of my wife’s phone tracker. I throw open the office door. Inside, Giovanni Baldini stands near a wet bar along the side wall, a man who must be his father seated on a loveseat. Both look up.
I stop inside the threshold and point my bat directly at Giovanni. “I fucking warned you.”
Giovanni’s father stands, hands bracing against the desk. “Who the fuck are you?—”
Beau shoves his bat into Baldini senior’s chest, pinning him to the couch with a lazy shake of his head. “Let’s have a little chat,” he says, voice almost pleasant.
I advance on Giovanni, my footsteps slow and deliberate. Each one echoes in the suddenly quiet room, a metronome counting down to his reckoning.
He scrambles back, eyes wide, hands raised in a pathetic attempt at placation. “Wait, wait! Let’s talk about this. There’s no need for violence.” His voice shakes, the smug veneer cracking under the weight of his cowardice.
I don’t bother responding. I just keep coming, my grip tightening on the bat until my knuckles turn white. Anticipation thrums inside my veins. I’m not a violent person by nature. In fact, I can’t think of anything that drives me to violence.
Until now.
Until someone threatens my wife.
Giovanni’s eyes dart to his father, silently pleading for help. But Baldini senior remains pinned to the couch, Beau’s bat digging into his chest.
I close the distance between us in three long strides. Giovanni backs up until he hits the wall, nowhere left to run. I press the end of the bat under his chin, forcing his head up. His pulse hammers against the wood, frantic and erratic.
“You put your hands on my wife,” I say, my voice deadly calm. “You don’t get to walk away from that.”
I adjust my grip on the bat, tapping it lightly under Giovanni’s chin. He flinches, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple. The sour stench of his fear fills the air between us. It’s acrid and pathetic. Just like him.
“Let’s be reasonable, Carter. I’m sure we can come to some sort of arrangement.”
A humorless chuckle rumbles in my chest. I step back, and his shoulders sag. But his relief is premature. I lift the bat and swing.
Giovanni screams. His knee buckles, but I don’t stop. Another swing, another sickening snap.
He buckles to the ground, gasping, gripping his shattered knees.
I crouch down, bat resting against his chest. My voice drops. Low, dark, a growl of pure fucking fury. “The first one is for hurting her, for scaring her. And that second one is for ever thinking you were good enough to have her. And the third strike? It’s coming for you, Baldini.”
I rise to my feet, the bat still clutched in my fist, knuckles white. I turn on my heel and stride out of the room.
Beau falls into step beside me, his own bat resting casually against his shoulder. “Knew a bat would come in handy.”
A low chuckle bubbles out of me, a grin growing wide across my face. “Thanks for having my back.”
“Of course. We’re fucking brothers, man,” Beau says like that explains everything. And maybe it does.
Maybe everything is really just that simple.
We step out into the cool night air, a sense of finality settling over me as we leave the sprawling Baldini estate behind. The scent of freshly cut grass and expensive landscaping mixes with the acrid tang of violence still clinging to my skin. But with each step away from that house, from the ugliness inside, I feel lighter. Freer.
Revenge isn’t usually my style. I prefer subtlety, working behind the scenes to dismantle my enemies piece by painstaking piece. But seeing those bruises on Francesca’s delicate skin brought out a different kind of response.
So the Baldinis get the two-for-one special. A little physical violence to go along with the systematic dismantling of their entire corrupt fortune.
The Baldinis will fall. That’s inevitable.
But Francesca? She’ll never be theirs again.
She was always meant to be mine.