Chapter 15 Alessio
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ALESSIO
Ireturn to the penthouse and feel right away that something is more than just off—it’s deeply wrong. The latch is half turned. Luigi, who should be standing like a guard dog by the elevator, is nowhere to be seen. I punch in the code. The light flashes green, but the lock opens almost too easily.
Adrenaline snaps my vision into a tight, clear tunnel. Inside: unnatural silence. No Carina, no Lucy. Not even the tremor of the HVAC that Lucy always complains about. The entryway has a depression in the carpet that looks recent.
I walk quickly through the foyer, fists clenched, and find the living room empty and cold. Lucy’s sketchbook and pencils are scattered on the coffee table.
I call out for Carina, then for Lucy. Only my echo answers, bouncing off the glass and marble. My heart twists with dread. I’m sure someone was here and took one or both of them, or hurt them.
I hear footsteps in the hall behind me and turn to see Chiara at the door, keys in hand and her purse on her elbow. She stops, mouth open.
“Good morning?” she tries, voice breaking.
“Where is everyone?” I ask. My tone is a gunshot. “Do you see Lucy? Carina?”
Chiara blinks hard, shakes her head. “No, signore. Just arrived now. Luigi’s supposed to be here—he’s gone?”
I don’t bother answering, just walk briskly past her, scanning every room.
Kitchen: untouched. Balcony: empty. The second bath: nothing.
I pound up the stairs, two at a time, and find Carina’s room with the door ajar and the covers still rumpled.
No Carina. Her laptop is open on the desk, showing a paused video: an anonymous hand making shadow puppets on a wall.
A choke in my chest. I call again, “Carina!”
This time, I hear a soft, muffled noise from the guest bedroom. I hurry over and throw the door open.
She’s sitting on the floor, phone pressed to her face, a comforter huddled around her, eyes wide and red-rimmed. She’s not crying, not anymore, but her body is the shape of someone who just did.
I step in, drop to one knee. “Carina, talk. What happened?”
She looks up, mouth working. “They took Lucy,” she says. “I tried to call you, but you didn’t answer. I called Enzo, and then—” She shakes her head, tears quivering on her lower lashes.
“Who took her?”
She drags a sleeve across her nose. “A man. I saw him on the camera, I think, he was at the door. Lucy opened it. She looked—surprised? Then he grabbed her.” Carina clutches her phone, knuckles white.
“I thought it was a delivery. I was in my room. When I heard it, I came out, but she was gone, and the door was open.”
I take her phone. Scroll to the last call: Enzo, twice.
Then, to the home camera app. I rewind to ten minutes ago and see, in two frozen frames, the man at the door: older, pale-eyed, suit like a razor.
Second frame, he’s got Lucy by the jaw, hand over her mouth.
She’s fighting, but not for long. He pulls her into the hallway, then nothing.
Cold, disgusting helplessness drains through me. “Did he say anything?”
Carina shakes her head. “Nothing. Just took her and left. I ran after, but the elevator—” She trails off, shivering.
I help her up and put my arm around her. My daughter seems taller than I remember, all elbows and stubbornness, but right now she leans into me like a child. I look out the glass wall at Manhattan and feel a surge of anger.
I text Enzo, the only three letters I need: SOS.
Then I call Stanislav, who has the intelligence, strength, and motive to do this. If I’m wrong, I’ll admit it. If I’m right, he has her and expects me to beg.
He answers on the first ring, Russian accent as oily as his handshake. “Alessio. What now? I am having breakfast. Can this wait?”
“You know why I’m calling,” I say.
A pause, long enough for him to swallow, maybe, or to wipe his mouth delicately. “No, but I will soon. Someone has displeased you?”
“She’s not part of this,” I say through clenched teeth. “Bring her back now. Or I’ll come to your house and take her. You know I will.”
He makes a tsk, tsk sound. “So personal, Alessio. You have me mixed up with smaller men. I do not steal girls. I have many women of my own.”
“Don’t mess with me, Stan. I just threatened your son with a one-way ticket to Moscow. If you want to escalate, I will too.”
He laughs, light and airy. “You have such a dramatic way with words. But I tell you as a friend: I do not have your girl.” Then, lower: “I will make some calls, yes? If she is in Brighton, I will let you know.”
The call ends. I want to snap the phone in two, but Carina is staring at me, so I clamp my hand on her shoulder. “Pack a bag. I’ll call you a car. You go to your mother.”
“I’m not going to Italy,” she snaps.
“You are if you want to stay safe,” I say, then quickly change the subject before she can argue. “Enzo will be here in three minutes. I want you ready.”
She yanks open her closet with a force that would make me proud if I wasn’t already hurting. I call Enzo, and he answers right away, as if he’s been waiting for my call.
“Talk to me, boss.”
“They took her,” I say. “I want the video pulled from every camera in the building. I want Luigi on a fucking hook, alive. I want Chiara questioned. I want—”
“I’m already on it. Do you want me to call in Sal?”
I pause. Bringing in Sal means using old methods, the kind that solve problems with force. “No,” I say. “Not yet. We do this clean.”
“Got it,” Enzo says. “Do you want me at the penthouse?”
“I need you everywhere. But start here.”
He hangs up. I text Carina’s mother, who answers instantly: Send her to me. I’ll prepare.
My next call is to the doorman, who answers, for once in his life, on the first ring.
“Yes, Mr. Morrone?”
“Who came through the lobby in the last hour?”
A shuffle of paper. “Um, only two people, sir. Luigi, your security, and a delivery for Miss Stuyvesant. No package, just a message. I sent him up. He had ID.”
I grit my teeth. “You have the name?”
He shuffles. “Let me check. Yes, it was—” He hesitates. “Matthews. Samuel Matthews.”
I write it down, my grip tight on the pen. “What did he look like?”
“Tall, sir. Pale. Maybe late forties? Had a badge. Very polite.”
Enzo calls in. I answer, tense and ready for anything, but his calm voice makes me pause.
“Alessio,” he says. “I have the footage. He’s not Russian. He’s not mob. I know the face.”
I step away from Carina, my heart pounding. “Who?”
“He’s with the Feds. Or, he was. He’s a retirement ghost. But I think he’s freelance now. My guess? She was targeted. Not for you, but for her. For her father. Or for leverage.”
Remembering her pressed against me last night, her hair brushing my cheek, makes my eyes blur for a moment.
I say, “Get me everything on Matthews. I want every detail, even his mother’s maiden name. And then make sure he can’t hide.”
Enzo’s voice is ice. “Already started.”
The line closes. I turn back to Carina, who’s in the foyer with a small suitcase and a cigarette behind her ear. She stands a little off-balance, eyes steady. “You’ll find her,” she says, sounding certain as she enters the elevator, half-angel, half-devil, entirely Morrone.
When I’m alone, I take a moment at the window. The city below looks like a map of chances and risks. I stare at the skyline and make a promise to myself: I won’t let anyone take what’s mine.
I call one number after another, working through my contacts until sunrise lights up my office.
By nightfall, I will have her.
Anyone who tries to keep her from me will regret ever knowing my name.