Chapter 37
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Dmitri
The Sartori compound appears ahead. Lights blazing. Guards everywhere.
Vittoria hasn't stopped shaking. Hasn't let go of my jacket.
The SUV stops. Pietro gets out first. Nico follows.
I carry Vittoria toward the entrance. She keeps her face buried against my neck.
Aria Sartori rushes out. Her face pale. "Vittoria. Oh, my baby."
"She's okay," Pietro tells her. "She's not hurt."
"I want to see her. I need to—"
"Mamma." Vittoria's voice is muffled against my shoulder. "I'm okay. I just need a bath. Please."
Aria's hand touches her daughter's hair. Gentle. Trembling. "Of course. Whatever you need."
We move through the compound. Past guards. Past family members who stare with worried faces.
I carry Vittoria up the stairs. Down a hallway I've never walked before.
She lifts her head. "Third door on the right."
I push the door open with my shoulder.
Her bedroom is exactly what I expected. Clean. Organized. Multiple monitors on a desk. Books stacked neatly on shelves.
I set her down carefully on the bed. She sways. Grabs my arm for balance.
"I need a bath." She won't look at me. "I need to feel clean."
"I'll help you."
"No." Her voice is sharp. "I need to do this alone. Please."
The words cut. But I nod. "Okay."
She stands. Walks toward what must be the bathroom. Her steps are unsteady.
I watch her go. Watch the door close behind her.
Water runs. The sound fills the silence.
I sit on her bed. My hands shake. I clench them into fists.
She's safe. She's home. She's alive.
But someone took her. Someone tied her to a chair. Someone hit her hard enough to leave a mark.
I sit in the silence. Listen to the water running.
My phone buzzes. Karolina.
I answer. "How's Aleksander?"
"He's fine." Her voice is tight. Worried. "The bullet just grazed him. He's already complaining about the bandage."
Relief floods through me. "Good."
"How's Vittoria? Yuri called."
"She's..." I look at the bathroom door. "She's home. She's safe."
"But?"
"She wanted to be alone."
Karolina is quiet for a moment. "Give her time. She just went through something traumatic."
"I know."
"We're heading home now. Vladimir is driving. Natalia wants to see you when you get back."
"Tell her I'll be there soon."
"Dmitri." Karolina's voice softens. "I'm glad Vittoria is okay."
"Me too."
I end the call. Set the phone on the nightstand.
The water stops running.
I wait. Listen for any sound from the bathroom.
Nothing.
Minutes pass. Five. Ten.
I stand. Walk to the bathroom door. Press my palm against the wood.
"Vittoria?"
No answer.
"Solnyshko. Are you okay?"
Silence.
My chest tightens. "I'm not leaving. I'll wait out here as long as you need."
Still nothing.
I return to the bed. Sit. Wait.
The door opens.
Vittoria emerges wearing a white robe. Her hair is wet. Her face scrubbed clean. The makeup washed away.
She looks younger. More vulnerable.
She stops when she sees me. Her fingers dig into the robe's fabric.
"They didn't touch me. Not like... not in that way. Just the hit. When they grabbed me."
Relief and rage war in my chest. "Okay."
"I need you to know that. I need everyone to know that."
"I believe you."
She finally looks at me. Her eyes are red. Swollen from crying. "I feel dirty anyway. Like I can still feel their hands on me."
I stand. Move toward her slowly. "You're safe now. I promise."
She doesn't back away.
I reach for her. Stop myself. "What do you need?"
She wraps her arms around herself. "Clothes. I need clothes. Can you... my closet is through there."
She points to a door on the left side of the room.
I walk toward it. Push it open.
Fuck.
It's not a closet. It's a room. A whole room dedicated to clothes.
Racks line the walls. Organized by color. Shoes displayed on shelves like art. Drawers labeled in neat handwriting.
"This is..." I turn back to look at her. "This is like a boutique."
She laughs. The sound is weak. Broken. But it's a laugh.
Thank God.
"I need guidelines," I tell her. "What am I looking for?"
"Something comfortable."
"I understand." I scan the racks. "Pants or dress?"
"Pants. And a sweater. The gray cashmere one. Third drawer on the right side."
I find the drawer. Pull it open. Multiple gray sweaters stare back at me.
"Which gray?"
"The light one. With the V-neck."
I grab it. The fabric is soft. I move to the pants section.
"Black leggings," she calls out. "Second rack. They're folded."
I find them. Grab a pair. "Underwear?"
"Top drawer. Left side. Any pair is fine."
I open the drawer. Everything is organized. Folded perfectly. I grab a simple black set.
"Socks?"
"Same drawer. Right side."
I collect everything. Walk back into the bedroom.
Vittoria sits exactly where I left her. Staring at nothing.
I kneel in front of her. Set the clothes beside me on the floor.
"Arms up."
She blinks. Looks at me. "What?"
"Arms open. I'm going to dress you."
"I can do it myself."
"I know you can." I reach for the hem of her robe. "But you don't have to."
She hesitates. Then slowly raises her arms.
I pull the robe. She's naked underneath. Bruises are forming on her ribs. Her wrists.
Rage burns through me.
Later. I'll deal with it later.
I grab the underwear. Help her step into them. Pull them up gently.
She doesn't protest. Doesn't say anything.
I do the same with the leggings. Careful around the bruises on her ankles.
"Sit back down."
She sits. I kneel again. Put socks on her feet. One at a time.
"Arms up."
She raises them. I slide the sweater over her head. Guide her arms through the sleeves.
"Thank you."
"You don't have to thank me."
"I do." Her voice cracks. "I'm very mad at myself mostly."
I sit beside her on the bed. "Why?"
"Because I always believe I can do bigger things than what I can actually do." She pulls her knees up. Wraps her arms around them. "I thought I could handle it. I thought I could fight them off. I thought..."
She stops. Swallows hard.
"I thought I was smarter than this. Stronger than this. But I just froze. When they grabbed me, I just... I couldn't move. Couldn't think. I just let them take me."
"You activated your tracker."
"After they threw me in the van. After they'd already taken me. If I'd been faster, if I'd been smarter—"
"Stop." I turn to face her fully. "You survived. That's what matters."
"I should have done more."
"You did exactly what you needed to do." I reach for her hand. She lets me take it. "You stayed alive. You activated the tracker. You gave us a way to find you."
"I built those trackers thinking I'd never need mine." She laughs. The sound is bitter. "I thought I was the one who'd be tracking everyone else. Making sure they were safe. Not the other way around."
"You can't control everything."
"I know that." She looks at our joined hands. "But I keep trying anyway. I keep thinking if I'm just smart enough, if I plan enough, if I prepare enough... nothing bad will happen. But it does anyway."
I squeeze her hand. "That's not weakness."
"It feels like weakness."
"It's not."
She's quiet for a long moment. Her thumb traces circles on my palm.
"I was so scared," she whispers. "When they grabbed me. I was terrified."
"I know."
"But I kept thinking... Dmitri will come. He'll find me. He won't stop until he does." She looks up at me. Tears slide down her cheeks. "And you did. You came."
I pull her against my chest. She comes willingly. Buries her face in my shoulder.
"Always," I tell her. "I will always come for you."
Vittoria
The living room feels too bright. Too many eyes watching me.
I sit on the couch with Dmitri beside me. His hand rests on my thigh. Grounding me.
Pietro stands by the fireplace. Nico paces near the window. Lorenzo sits in the armchair across from me. Bruno's wheelchair is positioned near the door.
Mamma wanted to stay. I told her no. Gently. But firmly.
This is family business. Not mother-daughter comfort time.
A mug of chamomile tea warms my hands. I don't drink it. Just hold it. Let the heat seep into my palms.
"Start from the beginning," Pietro says. His voice is calm. Controlled. But I see the tension in his jaw. "When you were taken."
I take a breath. Focus on the facts. Not the fear.
"The man grabbed me. Put a gun to my head. Dragged me toward the exit." My voice sounds steadier than I feel. "Dmitri tried to negotiate. Offered himself instead."
Dmitri's hand tightens on my thigh.
"The man refused. Kept pulling me backward. Through the door. Into the alley."
I pause. Take another breath.
"Someone shot him. The man holding me. He went down immediately. I thought... I thought I could run. But then two other men grabbed me. They were wearing tactical gear. Black. Professional."
"How many?" Nico stops pacing. Looks at me.
"Two. Both American. I could tell by their voices."
"Did they say anything?"
"No. They just... they moved fast. One grabbed my arms. The other my legs. I tried to fight but—"
My voice cracks. I stop. Sip the tea. It burns my tongue.
Dmitri's thumb strokes my thigh. Small circles. Steady rhythm.
"They blocked the door," I continue. "Barricaded it somehow. That's when one of them hit me. Across the face. Hard enough that I saw stars."
Pietro's expression doesn't change. But his knuckles go white where he grips the mantle.
"Then they carried me to the van. Threw me in the back. I hit my head when I landed. Everything went black."
Nico resumes pacing. "The man who grabbed you first. The one who was shot. He wasn't part of the extraction team."
"What do you mean?" I look at him.
"I mean he was a distraction. A sacrifice." Nico's mind is working. I can see it in his eyes. "They knew someone would shoot him."
"Or," Lorenzo says quietly, "he was supposed to take you earlier but failed. And they had a backup plan."
"No." Nico shakes his head. "Too coordinated. The timing was perfect. The moment he went down, the other two were there. They knew exactly where to be. What to do."
"Our team is processing the bodies now," Pietro says. "Running prints. Checking for identifying marks. Anything that might tell us who sent them."
"They won't find anything," Bruno says from his wheelchair. His voice is bitter. Cold. "Professionals don't carry identification."
"They might find something," Nico counters. "A tattoo. A scar. A dental record. Something."
I take another sip of tea. My hands shake slightly. I set the mug on the coffee table.
"When I woke up in the van, I was alone. My wrists and ankles were zip-tied. I could hear them talking in the front.
I pause. Remember the panic. The way my heart hammered against my ribs.
"I knew I had to activate the tracker. But my hands were behind my back. And I was wearing heels."
"I managed to twist my body. Get my fingers near my right heel. The tracker is embedded in the sole. There's a small mechanism. You have to press it just right."
My fingers flex unconsciously. Remembering.
"My fingers kept slipping. And I was terrified they'd hear me moving. But I got it. Pressed the button. Felt it click."
"How long before they stopped?" Pietro asks.
"Maybe thirty seconds. A minute at most."
I close my eyes. See it again. The van doors opening. Light flooding in.
"I pretended to be unconscious. Kept my breathing slow. Even. They opened the doors. Two men. The same who grabbed me."
"How many total did you see?" Nico stops pacing again.
"Three. The two who took me from the alley. And one more at the warehouse."
"And they thought you were unconscious?"
"Yes. They carried me inside. I kept my body limp. My eyes closed."
"They tied me to a chair. Then they left. I heard footsteps. A door closing. Silence."
Dmitri's hand moves from my thigh to my hand. Laces our fingers together.
"I opened my eyes. Looked around. The warehouse was mostly empty. Some old crates. Broken pallets. Dust everywhere. One overhead light. That's it."
"How long were you alone?" Lorenzo asks.
"Three minutes. Maybe four. Not long."
My throat tightens. I swallow hard.
"Then I heard footsteps. Different from before. Slower. Confident. The door opened. And he walked in."
"He?" Pietro straightens.
"The man in charge. Their boss."
Every eye in the room fixes on me.
"He walked right up to me. Stood maybe three feet away. Under the light. I could see his face perfectly."
"Describe him," Pietro commands.
"Mid-forties. Maybe five-ten. Average build. Dark hair. Clean-shaven."
I close my eyes. See him clearly.
"He had a scar. Small. On his left eyebrow.. And his eyes were..." I pause. "Cold. Empty. Like looking at a corpse. The right one was a bit larger."
"Did he have an accent?" Nico asks.
"I can't tell. He looked like european. Or mexican, or Italian. But he didn't have a specific accent. He spoke clearly. Calmly. Like we were having tea instead of—"
My voice breaks. Dmitri squeezes my hand.
"He called himself Smoke."