Chapter 27
Gavino stood near the entrance of the warehouse, talking in a low voice with one of the men. Cancio was looking into the weapon supplies.
Then the call came.
Gavino's phone buzzed. He answered, his gaze darkening with each second that passed. His eyes flicked to me.
"There was an accident" he said.
"What accident?" My voice was flat.
Gavino exchanged a glance with Cancio before answering. "Marco's car. It was run off the road."
The words hit like a gunshot.
Marco. Alessa's driver. The man who never left the penthouse without a good reason.
I took a slow step forward. "Was Alessa with him?"
Gavino hesitated. "We don't know yet."
I was already moving. The drive to the crash site was a blur, a haze of burning tension and rage curling in my chest. By the time we arrived, the scene was chaos. Flashing lights in the dark. The twisted wreckage of Marco's car, crumpled and useless. A dark smear of blood across the pavement.
Marco's body lay nearby, covered by a black tarp.
I exhaled sharply through my nose, forcing the anger down. He was a loyal soldier. A good man. But my mind wasn't on him.
I scanned the wreckage. The doors were blown open. No sign of another body. That meant—
"She is not here," Gavino said, voicing my thoughts. "Either she was not with him... or they took her."
No, Alessa wasn't here. Maybe she was fine. Maybe she was at the penthouse safe. Nobody can take her.
I pulled out my phone and dialed her number. The rings echoed, each one slicing into my patience like a blade.
Then I heard it.
A muffled buzz.
Not through the phone.
From somewhere close.
My head snapped toward the wreckage. I took three quick strides toward the edge of the road, scanning the ground.
My head snapped toward the sound.
There half-buried in the dirt and glass was her phone, cracked down the center.
The screen was still on. The ringing stopped as my call went to voicemail.
"Could be the Russians" Gavino was talking to Cancio. "They have been pushing lately."
Cancio shook his head. "If it were the Russians, we would have gotten a call by now. They don't pull shit like this without making a statement."
Gavino gave a short nod. "Then who?"
I barely heard the rest of the conversation between them.
Because I had looked down.
Because on the shattered screen of Alessa's phone, something was still open.
A picture.
My breath left me in a slow, controlled exhale as I picked up the phone, tilting it enough to see the image.
It took a second to register. Then my blood ran cold.
A club. Dim lighting. A woman, someone I didn't recognize was practically draped over me.
The message beneath it was mocking.
Is this your husband?
Last night.
Fuck.
I gripped Alessa's cracked phone, my knuckles turning white. My pulse thundered in my ears, drowning out Gavino and Cancio's conversation.
Someone had orchestrated this. Someone had sent that picture, pushed her past the breaking point and now she was gone.
Gavino peered over my shoulder. "What the fuck?"
The picture stared back at me, taunting. My own face, frozen in time, taken from an angle that made it impossible to deny.
It was a setup. Had to be. But that didn't matter right now.
Alessa had seen it.
She had believed it. She had left.
A muscle ticked in my jaw as I turned to Gavino. "Trace the number."
Gavino took the phone, already moving. "On it."
I turn, heading straight for my car.
Cancio's voice followed. "Where are you going?"
"The penthouse," I said. "Just in case."
He didn't argue. Maybe he knew I needed to see for myself.
I needed to check the penthouse.
Maybe, by some miracle, she was there. Maybe she had thrown her phone, stormed out and went home. Maybe she was waiting, curled up in the bed she hated, heartbroken but safe.
The drive was a blur of barely contained rage and suffocating tension. By the time I reached the building, I was on the edge of losing control. The elevator ride up felt agonizingly slow, each second stretching like a wire about to snap.
When the doors slid open, the silence in the penthouse was suffocating. No soft footsteps. No presence. Nothing.
A hollow feeling settled in my chest but I wasn't ready to accept it.
"Alessa!"
My voice echoed through the penthouse. No answer.
I stalked through the rooms, throwing doors open. Bedroom? Empty. Bathroom? Empty. Living room? Empty. Kitchen?
Nothing.
Then I saw it.
The ring sitting on the kitchen counter.
The last shred of hope I had flickered had died. She was really gone.
A deep, consuming rage took its place. My vision blurred at the edges, my breath coming sharp and ragged.
Then I snapped.
I grabbed the closest thing, an empty glass and sent it flying against the wall. The shatter echoed through the silence but it wasn't enough.
The coffee table went next in one sharp kick and it splintered, glass shattering across the floor. I swiped everything off the kitchen counter. Bottles, glasses, Alessa's untouched cup of tea from the morning. The sound of destruction barely registered.
The walls felt too close, the air too thick. My chest ached, not from exertion but from the fucking storm ripping me apart inside.
Breathing hard, I braced my hands against the counter, my head dropping forward.
She left.
She fucking left me.
And whoever had orchestrated this was going to fucking pay.