Chapter 5 #2
The words echo through my skull. Key to what?
Her cancer survival—something in her blood worth studying?
Her bloodline—Russian, Greek, Italian, a grandmother who was a spy and a mother who faked her death?
The experimental procedure on the island—whatever her mother's been hiding for thirteen years? The fucking contract?
Or the information itself. Secrets that make hardened men tremble.
I step back from the broken man, mind racing.
"Get him patched up," I tell the guard at the door. "Keep him alive. For now. Let's verify his intel. And find out everything he knows about the American woman—where she stayed, who she talked to, what she bought, where she ate. Someone saw something."
Then I pull up my phone and text DiMarco.
Double the protection on Enzo. If they used him once, they might try to clean up loose ends. He doesn't leave his apartment without eyes on him.
Because Enzo is a loose end now. A kind old man who makes dolls for children, who thought he was helping me, who has no idea he's now a liability to whoever's running this operation.
I won't let them hurt him for my mistake.
Then I pull up Connor's number. The Irish bastard may be an ocean away, but he's got resources I need. Eyes in places mine can't reach. And his wife is Bella's best friend—if anyone has reason to help me protect her, it's him.
The phone rings twice before that familiar brogue fills my ear. "Antonio. I was busy. This better be good."
"It's not." I keep my voice low, moving away from the prisoner. "Someone's playing all of us. Greeks, Italians—maybe Irish too. There's a mole in my operation, a backdoor in our comms that's been active for years. And they want Isabella."
Silence. Then: "Tell me."
I give him the short version. The financial sabotage targeting the Greeks. The intercepted communications. The American woman who used an old man to photograph my daughter. The confession I just beat out of a dead man walking. "She's the key" sounds even worse said aloud.
"There's a name," I add. "Theos. Greek for god. And a phrase that keeps appearing in their comms—'the gods will fly.' It's tied to lunar cycles. Something's happening in five days."
"Theos," Connor repeats slowly. "Never heard of them."
"Neither has anyone else. That's the problem."
"She hasn't been able to contact you since she landed?" he asks.
"Nothing. Either they've cut her off or something's wrong."
"Fuck." Connor breathes. "Naomi's been trying to reach her too. Nothing's going through."
"I need eyes in Greece. Real ones, not whatever the Greeks are feeding us. You've got contacts in shipping, in the ports—"
"Already thinking it." I can hear him moving, the creak of a bed, Naomi's sleepy murmur in the background. "I'll have my people in Piraeus start asking questions. Carefully."
"There's something else." I pause, weighing how much to reveal. Connor's an ally, but in our world, information is currency. Still—I need him. "I've got an asset inside. Dimitri."
"Really?" Connor's tone sharpens. "Since when is he back in play?"
"Since he owed me his life and needed a way to repay it. Former special forces, deep cover experience. He's been embedded with the Greeks for two months, posing as maintenance staff."
"And you trust him?"
"I trust that he knows what happens if he betrays me.
I trust that he's got reasons of his own to want the Greek operation exposed.
" I don't elaborate on what those reasons might be—the way Dimitri's eyes track Stefanos when he thinks no one's watching, the tension between them.
That's not my story to tell, and it's not relevant.
What matters is that Dimitri has access.
"He confirmed the brothers are fighting.
The financial pressure is real. But there's something else going on—something even they might not fully understand. "
"You think they're being played too?"
"I think everyone's being played. The question is by who. By Theos—whoever the fuck that is."
Connor's quiet for a moment. "If they've got a mole in your house, they might have one in the Greeks' organization too. Hell, maybe even ours. Watch who you trust over there. Even the brothers."
"I trust Franco and Manuel."
"Good. That's two. Keep it that way until we know what we're dealing with." A pause, then softer: "Naomi's worried sick. She's been trying to reach Isabella for hours. I had to physically stop her from booking a flight."
"Tell her I'm handling it."
"I'll tell her you said that. Whether she believes it is another matter." The sound of a door closing—Connor moving to another room, away from Naomi's ears. "Listen, Antonio. If this goes sideways, if you need extraction—"
"I know."
"I mean it. Whatever resources you need. Whatever it takes. Naomi would never forgive me if something happened to Isabella, and frankly, I'd never forgive myself."
In our world, alliances are transactional. You help me, I help you, we both profit. But there's something in Connor's voice that goes beyond business.
"Twelve hours," I tell him. "Give me twelve hours before you send anyone. I need to figure out what we're dealing with first."
"Twelve hours. Then I'm making calls whether you like it or not."
The line goes dead.
I climb the stairs from the basement, washing the blood from my hands in the utility sink. The water runs red, then pink, then clear.
Theos.
Someone who fancies themselves a god. Someone who's been building this for years—watching, waiting, moving pieces into place. The American woman, the surveillance on Elena, the Greek financial sabotage, the backdoor in my communications. All threads in a web I'm only beginning to see.
In five days, something's going to happen. Something this "god" has been planning for longer than I've been in power. And my wife is at the center of it.
Elena's safe now, tucked away in the Piedmont vineyard with six guards and Franco's cousin watching over her. Signora Martha will have read her a story, sung her the lullaby she likes, kept her safe from the darkness that funds her comfortable life.
But for how long?
They have photos of her now. They know her name, her age, her habits. They know she counts everything. They know where she plays and when she's alone. And somewhere out there, an American woman with a forgettable face is reporting back to someone who calls themselves a god.
I pull up the tracker. But it's not back on. They're jamming communications. Only letting it slide every couple of minutes.
I can't reach her. Can't warn her. Can't do anything but watch that dot and plan.
But I'm going to find Theos. I'm going to unravel every thread of this web until I understand who's been pulling the strings.
And when I do?
They'll learn what happens when you threaten what belongs to the Beast.
Bella's out there somewhere, on an island I can't reach, surrounded by people whose motives I don't trust. She can't contact me. She's walking into something none of us fully understand.
But she's not alone. She's got Franco. She's got Manuel.
And she's got me—even from across the Mediterranean, even through silence and distance and fear. She's got me working every angle, calling every favor, threatening every person who might have answers.
I'm coming for her.
And god help anyone who stands in my way.
"Package secure," Franco's cousin reports. "No incidents on the drive. She's asking for her dog."
Package. My daughter, reduced to code words.
"Put her on."
Rustling. Then: "Papa? I counted the windows and there are only two. Our house has more."
"It's a special house, principessa. Very safe."
"But I don't like it. It smells like grapes and Signora Martha won't let me explore and—" Her voice wobbles. "I want Bella-ballina. I want to go home."
My chest constricts. "I know, baby. Soon."
“You keep saying soon. When is soon?” Her voice wobbles. “I want Bella-ballina now.”
I close my eyes. "Seven. Can you count to seven?" Five days to extract Isabella. Two days to be safe.
"Of course I can count to seven. I'm not a baby." Offended dignity. "One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. That's a lot of days, Papa."
"I know. But you're brave, right? Bella-ballina says you're the bravest girl she knows."
A pause. "She said that?"
"She did."
"Okay." Deep breath, audible through the phone. "I'll be brave for seven days. But then you have to bring her home. Promise?"
"I promise."
After we hang up, I stare at the wall for a long moment. Seven days. That's what I told her. That's what I have to make true.
Whatever it takes.