Chapter 5
Chapter five
ANTONIO
My knuckles are split open, blood mixing with his on the concrete floor.
Elena would be horrified if she saw me like this—shirt soaked through with sweat and someone else's blood, looking more Beast than man.
This morning I kissed her forehead, promised Signora Martha I'd be back for dinner.
Now I'm three hours deep into an interrogation that's yielded nothing but broken teeth and my own fraying patience.
This is who I am when my family's in danger. This is what I become.
It took DiMarco eighteen hours to find the American woman.
Street cameras caught her leaving the Saturday market, walking three blocks to a rented Vespa.
The rental agency had a copy of her passport—fake, but good enough to trace to an apartment in the old quarter.
She was gone by the time my men arrived, but she'd left behind a burner phone with exactly one number in the call history.
That number led us to this piece of shit.
The room's damp chill seeps into my bones as I slam my fist into his jaw again. The crack echoes off the concrete walls, mixing with the steady drip from a leaky pipe. My knuckles throb, but pain is just information. I file it away and focus on what matters.
"The woman," I growl. "Who is she?"
He spits blood onto the concrete. "Which one? I know a lot of women."
"The American. Brunette. The one who paid an old man to photograph my daughter."
Something flickers in his eyes—recognition, maybe fear—before the smug mask slides back into place. "Don't know what you're talking about."
I grab a fistful of his greasy hair, yanking his head back. "She called you six times in the past week. We have the records. So let's try again."
He laughs—a wet, gurgling sound. "You think phone records mean shit? I get calls from lots of people."
I remember this piece of shit from two weeks ago, strutting through my club like he owned the place.
Throwing cash around, buying top-shelf vodka for the dancers.
His sweaty hands were all over Vanessa, pawing at her while he whispered in her ear about the Greeks, about debts, about things he shouldn't have known.
Every word came straight to me within the hour. One mention of Greek debts, and I flagged him for surveillance. When the American woman's burner phone connected to his number, everything clicked into place.
His little head did all the thinking. Now he's learning what happens when you run your mouth in my territory.
"The old man," I say, keeping my voice level. "Enzo Caruso. Seventy-six years old. Bad hip. Makes dolls for children." I lean closer. "She used him to get photos of my daughter. Used my own name to do it. Told him it was a favor for the family."
The smirk wavers. Just slightly.
"So here's what I want to know." I tighten my grip on his hair. "Who sent her? Who's she working for? And what the fuck do they want with a four-year-old girl?"
"I don't know what you're—"
I hit him again. Harder this time.
"Wrong answer."
My phone buzzes. I want to ignore it, but I can't. Not with Bella out there, not with Franco and Manuel as her only shields. Not with radio silence since they landed on that island—no calls, no texts, nothing.
I step back, wiping my hand on my pants before checking the screen. Luca.
Boss. Cracked those Greek financial records. Their debt situation is worse than we thought. Trail leads to shell companies, offshore accounts in Cyprus and Malta. Someone's been funneling money OUT while they bleed. This isn't mismanagement. Someone's sabotaging them from inside.
The fluorescent light flickers overhead, casting shadows that dance like the thoughts racing through my skull. The Greeks are being played. Just like we were at the wedding. Just like Enzo was played at the market.
The asshole in the chair starts cackling. The sound grates on every nerve I have left.
"You're all so fucking clueless," he wheezes. "Chasing the girl, chasing the Greeks, chasing your own tail. You don't even see it."
"See what?"
"The board." His bloody smile stretches wider. "You think you're a player. You're just another piece."
Another buzz from Luca.
Intercepted comm from Greek channels. Brothers fighting about money. References to "the procedure" and "the asset." Can't decrypt the rest yet. Working on it.
The asset. Bella.
"The American woman," I say, stalking back toward him. "Where is she now?"
"Gone. Long gone." He tilts his head, that smug look returning despite the damage I've done to his face. "You'll never find her. She's good at disappearing. It's what they pay her for."
"They who?"
"Wouldn't you like to know."
I grab him by the throat. "My daughter. Why photograph her? What's the play?"
"Insurance." He chokes out the word. "Leverage. You've got something they want, and now they've got something you want to protect."
"Who?" I squeeze harder. "Luciano? Is this Moretti's play?"
He laughs again, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth. "Moretti's a fucking dinosaur. He's not running this. He's not running anything anymore."
"Then who?"
"I told you—I don't know. None of us know. That's the point." His voice drops, taking on that zealot quality I've seen before. "We get orders. We follow them. We don't ask questions."
"The woman," I say again. "She's American. That's Luciano's territory. His connections."
"Think bigger." The prisoner's eyes glitter. "Think older. Think about who benefits when all the families tear each other apart."
"Enlighten me."
"I can't. I don't know." For the first time, he sounds almost sincere. "But I know they've been planning this for years. Decades, maybe. Your wife, the Greeks, the French alliance—it's all connected. And you're just now figuring out you're in a game that started before you were born."
My phone buzzes again. Luca.
Boss. Found a backdoor in our communications array. Old code, predates the wedding by at least two years. Someone's been reading our messages since before you even married her. Could be the Greeks. Could be Moretti. Could be someone else entirely. Working to trace the source.
Two years. Before the wedding. Before I locked Isabella away. Before any of this.
I look at the man in the chair. Blood dripping down his chin. Smug even in defeat.
"How did they know?" I ask quietly. "About the room where I kept my wife. About what happened between us behind closed doors. About how to approach Enzo, what story would work, how to use my own reputation against me."
"Because they're everywhere." He grins with broken teeth. "They've been watching you for years. All of you. Waiting for the right moment."
"And my daughter? What do they want with her?"
"Same thing they want with your wife. Leverage." His head lolls back. "You love them. That makes you weak. That makes you controllable."
I think about Elena arranging chocolate chips into groups of seven. About the way she mimicked Enzo's limp, not understanding what she was showing me. About the doll he promised to make her—a promise he made in good faith, not knowing he was being used.
Violence isn't working. He's not breaking—not through pain. Which means he's more afraid of whoever he works for than he is of me.
There's one card left to play. The one I've perfected over years of being the Beast.
Not actual violence against innocents. I have rules. Lines I don't cross, no matter what everyone assumes about me.
But the threat of it. The belief that I would.
That's a different weapon entirely.
I lean close, letting my voice drop to something barely human.
"You think you're the only one who knows things?" I watch his face, reading every micro-expression. "You think I haven't already found everyone you've ever cared about?"
His smirk wavers. Just a flicker.
"Your sister's irrelevant. Your niece couldn't care less if you disappeared." I let the silence stretch. "But there's someone. The teacher. Fifty-three years old. Lives alone in Athens. Walks the same route to the market every Tuesday and Friday."
The color drains from his face.
Here's what he doesn't know: I would never touch her. Would never harm a woman whose only crime was showing kindness to someone who didn't deserve it. The men who work for me know my rules. Civilians are off-limits. Always.
But he doesn't know that. He knows my reputation. He knows what people whisper about the Beast. And that reputation—carefully cultivated, deliberately monstrous—is the weapon I'm wielding now.
"One call," I say, letting every syllable drip with promised violence I will never actually deliver. "And she's gone."
I send a message he doesn't need to know about: Eyes on the teacher. Protection detail, round the clock. No one touches her.
Not because she's in danger from me. Because now that I've spoken her name aloud, others might have been listening. Others who don't share my rules.
The Beast's reputation is useful. But wielding it means accepting the weight of what people believe you capable of.
Sometimes that weight is the point.
He breaks.
"Please..." The word comes out shattered. "Please don't touch her. She has nothing to do with this."
"Then start talking." I tighten my grip. "Who's behind this? Tell me everything, or she pays for your silence."
His body slumps. The fight drains out of him all at once.
"There's... there's a name. Whispered. Never confirmed." He swallows hard. "Theos. That's what they call whoever's running this."
Theos. Greek for God.
The Gods will Fly.
"And my wife? What's her role?"
"I told you. She's the key." His voice cracks. "I don't know to what. But they want her. Alive. That's the only reason she's still breathing."