2. Antonio
Chapter two
Antonio
" T his is not acceptable."
My knuckles crack as I press them against the mahogany desk. The wood's expensive, imported, like everything else in this fortress that isn't stone and shadow. Franco stands opposite me, tension radiating off him in waves. The scar on my face pulls tight as I clench my jaw, a constant reminder of flames and betrayal.
I rise, the chair scraping against ancient stone. Henrik's knife wound throbs under my shirt, a phantom pain that flares whenever rage builds, like my body's keeping score of every fucking betrayal.
"This was supposed to be clear." Each word drops like a blade. "Moretti should be bleeding out, not expanding. Yet I'm told he's establishing new supply lines in Palermo. Building fresh alliances in Turin. The bastard who tried to have me killed at my own wedding is laughing while we're still burying our dead."
Franco shifts, that look in his eyes that says he's about to deliver more bad news. Three years as my right hand, and he still braces for impact when he has to tell me shit I don't want to hear.
"Look, boss, I hear you. But we've got bigger fires burning. Since that tournament and the wedding massacre, we're stretched thin. Those alliances you secured by winning Isabella? They're demanding more than we can deliver."
I drag in a breath that doesn't quite fill my lungs. The fortress carries salt from the Mediterranean, stone older than any of our grudges, and sometimes—when the wind hits just right—a ghost of honeysuckle that claws at whatever's left inside my chest.
Three months since I locked her away. Three months of waking up hard and aching, her taste still on my tongue. Three months of telling myself this hatred is cleaner than whatever else might be growing in the wreckage.
Easier to hate her than admit seeing those scars mapping her body broke something in me. Easier to blame her for my mother's death than question the narrative I've built my vengeance upon. Easier to leave her locked in that forgotten wing than face what happened between us on our wedding night.
But logic is a ruthless master, and it demands she stay contained. No matter how many nights I wake up with the phantom memory of her body under mine, her trust in those eyes before I shattered it. She's exactly where she belongs. Away from me. Away from everyone.
The dreams are the worst. Two months back, I caught myself at her door, hand on the key before I realized what I was doing. Torture of a different sort. One of my newer men decided to test his luck: "Heading back to tend to your wife? Wouldn't mind taking a turn with her myself."
I didn't think. Just reacted. My fist connected with his jaw, the familiar crunch of bone giving way. Not the first time I've made someone bleed for speaking about her like that. My crew should've learned by now. Henrik or Radomir would get the same treatment, only I wouldn't stop at one punch.
"And boss, there's chatter," Franco interrupts my spiral, eyes wary.
"From who?" My hand instinctively finds the scar on my neck. One of the first lessons in our world, delivered by Isabella's father after I'd pledged myself to his service like a fucking fool.
"The crew." Franco hesitates, and that pause tells me everything I need to know.
"Don't flower it up." I move to the window where the Mediterranean crashes against cliffs below—violent and unforgiving as the thoughts running through my head. "Give it to me straight."
Franco sighs. "We're bleeding money since the Irish alliance stalled. Lost three men near Milano last week. Execution-style, not accidents. The French are backing out of the Northern Europe deal, and everyone's asking the same question." He pauses, choosing his next words carefully. "Where's Isabella?"
Her name hits harder than it should. Three months, and it still feels like gravel in my throat.
"What do you mean?" Each word comes out laced with the kind of ice that makes smarter men run.
"They want to see her. Alive and well." Franco's fingers drum against his holster—nervous tell he's never managed to shake. "Word's spreading that she might be dead, that the contract isn't valid if she isn't living and breathing in this fortress. The French are particularly adamant. No Isabella, no deal."
I scoff, acid burning up my throat. "The whole point was marrying her to claim a piece of her father's empire. Being the heir was just insurance. Now it's all smoke."
"Maybe, but—"
"Her father isn't respecting his part of the contract. Why should I?" The words taste bitter, like the morning after our wedding night when everything burned down around us.
The argument gets cut short as Signora Martha bursts in. At seventy-something, she looks like she could be someone's sweet grandmother, but she moves through this fortress like she owns every stone. I've seen hardened sicarios step aside when she comes through. She's the only person I trust with Elena.
Elena. The little girl with Giuliana's smile and my eyes. My daughter, according to DNA tests that only confirmed what I knew when I first saw her. I've kept my distance, telling myself it's for her protection. In our world, love is leverage, and I've got enough enemies who'd use her to destroy me.
"She's vanished." Signora Martha's voice cuts through the room like a gunshot.
Ice floods my veins. Three words, and suddenly nothing else matters. Not Moretti, not the failing alliances, not even Isabella locked in her tower.
"Vanished?" The word tears from my throat, rough as the scars that map my body. "Explain. Now."