Chapter 7
Dante
What does it say about a man when he fails the one thing he swore to protect?
I used to believe I had eyes everywhere.
I used to believe nothing escaped my notice.
But here I am…
Standing in front of a fucking apartment no one would’ve thought to scrutinize. Nestled in a neighbourhood so painfully mundane, it’s almost insulting.
And I missed it.
I fucking missed it.
And not for lack of trying. I scoured everything he ever touched, every property, every forged identity, every shell corporation, burner account, offshore trace. I left no stone unturned.
This place? It didn’t exist. Not on paper. Not in whispers.
The address is etched into my memory now, seared into the forefront of my mind like a brand. The building looks like every other one on this block. Quiet. Innocent. Hidden in plain fucking sight.
Giovanni stands beside me, jaw tight. Enzo flanks his other side. Mario and Leonardo hang back, weapons drawn, eyes sharp. Michael’s here too, cold and quiet as ever, like he’s already planning who dies and how.
Niccolò and Darion are still out hunting, following what little’s left of the trail.
We’re here. We’re prepared.
I give a single nod.
“Let’s not waste another moment.”
We ascend the building with purpose. The air feels wrong, unnaturally still, as if it’s holding its breath. Two flights up. Apartment 3A.
Enzo drives his boot into the door. It gives way with a crack like a shot fired, splintering inward. We enter as one, weapons drawn, formation tight, ready for anything.
Then I step inside, and halt. The others follow, but no one speaks.
Not at first.
“What the fuck…”
Giovanni breathes.
The walls are covered. Every surface. Photographs.
Of her.
Harlow.
My wife.
Candid images. Surveillance shots. Some printed, some torn from sources I can’t identify. Others, drawn by hand, frantic and unhinged. Words scrawled beneath them in uneven ink. Mine, forever, wife, dove.
There are items scattered throughout the room, women’s belongings. Some I recognize instantly as Harlow’s. Others, I can’t be sure. But the intent is clear. And then, folded neatly, placed with care that makes my stomach turn, underwear. I know it’s hers.
I draw in a slow breath. Not out of calm, there is none left in me. But because I must be composed.
Because if I let the rage rise now, I’ll tear this place apart before we uncover what we came for.
Still, the knowledge that her life, her very essence, was diminished to a vile display, a shrine crafted by a deranged obsessive, makes it nearly impossible to hold my composure.
And it’s him.
Piero.
The realization strikes once more, sharp, unrelenting, like a blade driven deep, then twisted through bone.
I chose him.
I appointed him her bodyguard. Placed her life in his hands. Because I believed in his loyalty, his discretion, his unwavering competence. He was the kind of man who required no supervision, reliable, unassuming, invisible in the ways that mattered.
What a spectacular illusion.
What a failure in judgment.
How could I have been so blind?
I should have seen it, should have put the pieces together the moment Harlow mentioned the notes. The timing was exact. They began the same week Piero left Italy.
It was there, staring me in the face.
And I missed it.
And now? She’s the one paying the price for my failure.
My jaw tightens as I speak through clenched teeth, each word laced with ice and venom.
“I assigned him to protect her,”
I say, brittle with rage.
“And all the while, he was studying her. Calculating how to take what was never his to claim.”
My fists curl so tightly the tension burns through my arms, the ache a poor substitute for the punishment I deserve.
I should’ve questioned that year he vanished.
But I didn’t.
Because he continued delivering results. Still responded when summoned. Still carried out assignments as if nothing was amiss. He told me he had family matters to attend to. Said he needed time away from Italy.
And I, like a damn fool, believed him.
I should have seen the cracks. Should have looked beneath the surface. Should have dragged him back by the throat and demanded answers the moment his silence lingered too long.
Now I understand.
He was in Chicago.
Stalking my wife.
Obsessing over her in the shadows while I remained blissfully unaware. How it began, how his sickness took root, I still don’t know. But what I do know is that I trusted a man who was building a prison for her while I was trying to build a life.
“When I find him, I’ll tear him apart. Limb by limb. Fingernail by fingernail.”
I step farther into the room, staring at the pictures. The notes. The madness.
“I’m going to make him wish he died before he ever laid eyes on her. I’ll make him beg for hell.”
Behind me, the others are still silent. Even Michael looks shaken.
Leonardo walks toward the desk.
“There’s documents here,”
he says.
“Notes. Coordinates. Scribbled shit. Could be where he’s keeping her.”
“Check every drawer,”
I bark.
“Flip the fucking place upside down. I want everything.”
We move fast. Every man in the room is here for one reason, Harlow. Because she is family. And we will not rest until she’s back where she belongs. In my arms.
My wife.
Mine.
I stare at the wall again. Her face, printed a hundred times, surrounds me. Something inside me breaks, silent, irrevocable. I need to find her. Even if it’s the last thing I ever do. She must come home. Nothing else matters.
“What the fuck,”
Mario mutters.
I turn to him. “What?”
He says nothing. He merely extends a single sheet of paper toward me. I take it, my brow drawing tight as my gaze settles on the page.
A birth certificate.
I scan it once, and again, slower this time. Mother’s name is Carmela Moretti.
I freeze.
Silence stretches. My thoughts fracture, then sharpen. This is Harlow’s mother, but the line for the father is blank.
My grip tightens around the paper as I stare at it, refusing to blink. There must be a mistake. A forgery. Some elaborate fabrication. But every detail appears legitimate. Every mark is in order. This can’t be real. Not even a man as deranged as Piero could sink this low.
Or could he?
He’s been obsessed with her, fixated. And now—if this is to be believed—he’s her half-brother.
I clench my jaw.
No.
I don’t care what that document says. I will never, under any circumstance, allow Harlow to be tied to that filth. He’s not her brother. He’s not anything. He is a disturbed, obsessive creature who will die screaming for daring to touch what is mine.
The silence lingers, loud in its weight. No one speaks. They’re all staring at the same truth, the same damn piece of paper.
Giovanni is the one who finally breaks it.
“I’ll pay a visit to Carmela,”
he says, his voice icy.
“It’s long overdue. I want answers. She kept Harlow from me for years. And now this? A child no one knew about, and that child stalking my daughter?”
He shakes his head.
“That’s not a coincidence.”
I give him a nod.
Enzo speaks next. “Here.”
He pulls a weathered page from beneath a pile of filth on the desk.
“Back of this folder. Coordinates.”
Leonardo leans over his shoulder, eyes scanning.
“They’re real. Already checked. The location drops in the middle of nowhere. No address, no structure visible on satellite.”
I don’t respond. I’m already calculating. There’s no room for error now. He has her. And I’m going to take him apart piece by fucking piece for it.
I move closer, reading the numbers. My chest tightens.
“Let’s go,”
I say, already turning.
We pile into the cars, engines roaring through the quiet Naples streets. It’s dark out, too quiet, but I don’t hear anything beyond the pounding of my heart.
The coordinates lead us away from the polished fa?ades of the city, past the final flickers of civilization. Cobblestone gives way to gravel, then to a dirt path, narrow and veiled by overgrown brush. This isn’t a place you stumble upon, it’s the kind of place that wants to stay hidden. We park at the edge of the path. No car can go farther without being swallowed whole.
We continue on foot.
The forest is thick, humid, the kind that clings to your skin and muffles every sound. Even the air feels ancient. Trees tower above us, their branches arching like ribs, caging us in shadows. And then, we see an old villa, nearly devoured by the woods. Stone walls veined with moss and time, its fa?ade cracked and peeling, windows dark and broken like empty sockets. Ivy climbs the structure like it’s trying to claim it, to drag it back into the ground. Part of the upper floor has collapsed inward, leaving only charred wood and exposed beams, a skeleton of what was once someone’s grand estate.
It’s a ruin, but beneath the rot, there are whispers of opulence. Whoever owned this once had power, wealth, maybe even taste. And now, it’s nothing but a tomb.
My jaw tightens until pain blossoms at the side of my face.
She’s here.
I know it.
All this time… she was here. Right under our noses.
In my city.
It’s an insult. An offense so vile I can feel the betrayal grinding in my teeth.
Piero didn’t just hide her. He mocked me. And for that, I will peel the flesh from his bones with my own hands. Slowly. Methodically. Like the savage he mistook me for.
My hands curl into fists. Rage coils through me, cold and sharp. All this time, we searched the world, tore apart safehouses, docks, and compounds, and she was this close.
I should’ve known. I should’ve felt it.
The floor inside groans under our boots. Dust swirls in the beams of our flashlights. It reeks of damp wood, mould, and something fouler, like rust, like blood.
Michael stops.
“Here,” he says.
He kicks aside a warped armoire, revealing a trapdoor sunken into the stone. Half rotten, hidden beneath a mildewed rug and layers of filth. A heavy iron ring embedded in the centre.
He yanks it open. The stench that hits us is worse than anything above. It’s old and wet and wrong. The air feels like it’s been locked down there for years.
Steps lead into the dark.
She’s down there, I know it. She’s been down there. Alone. Hurt. Waiting.
My vision tunnels. My mind goes still. I will skin him for this. I will make him beg for a death I’ll never grant. No one touches what’s mine and lives. Not in this city. Not on this earth.
As I take the final step, I see her...
And my heart stops beating.
Harlow.
She’s curled in on herself on the floor. Looking so fragile. Breakable. Emaciated. Draped in what barely qualifies as a dress, a slip of fabric clinging to her like an afterthought. A pale, trembling silhouette against the cold stone.
There’s no bedding. No comfort. Not even a scrap of humanity in sight. Just Harlow. Abandoned on the bare floor like she was never meant to survive it. Her skin is mottled with bruises, shades of violet, charcoal, and blood wine red. Each mark vicious. Like someone took their time painting her pain onto a living canvas.
Some cuts are fresh, still oozing. Others are half healed. Her arms, her legs, this is only half we can see through the dress. Her hair is tangled, matted, streaked with blood and sweat. Her face is pale, cheeks sunken.
She’s not moving.
No sound.
No breath.
Not a flicker of life.
And in an instant, everything else ceases to exist. The world collapses in on itself. Time. Sound. Thought. All of it vanishes.
My knees crash to the stone before I even realize I’ve moved. My hands tremble as they reach for her. A tremor I haven’t felt since I was a boy. Not even then, if I’m honest.
But now...
Now I’m shaking.
I brush her hair back from her face, fingers light, reverent. Terrified. Her skin is ice beneath my touch. I press two fingers to her throat.
The longest, most agonizing seconds of my life crawl past in silence.
She’s alive.
She has to be.
I refuse to entertain the blasphemy of a world that doesn’t have my wife in it.
My fingers glide along the delicate curve of her neck... and there it is. A pulse. Faint. Fragile. But unmistakably hers.
Air rushes from my lungs, as though someone has lifted a cathedral from my chest. For the first time in weeks, I can breathe.
Behind me, the room is silent. Still. No one dares speak.
I look up. Giovanni’s eyes are glassy, glinting with a torment I never thought him capable of. So unlike the cold, calculating man I’ve come to know.
Michael stands rigid, his jaw locked so tightly it looks carved from marble.
Enzo trembles, barely holding himself together, his long hair veiling his expression, though the violence in him simmers just beneath the surface.
Mario and Leonardo are silent. Rage carved into every line of their faces. These are not men unfamiliar with suffering. Not strangers to brutality. They all are killers. Executioners.
And still...
Even they can’t mask it.
The heartbreak.
“She’s alive.”
I say, my voice rough. A quiet declaration. A vow.
One of my men jogs down from the stairwell, breath clipped, face ashen beneath the grime.
“We’ve got soldiers sweeping the territory. No sign of Piero yet. But…”
He hesitates, swallowing hard.
“He was living here. No doubt about it. There’s a mattress upstairs. Stocked food. Nothing expired. Nothing dusty. He’s gone now, vanished. No trace of him in sight.”
I clench my jaw until my teeth ache. He’s not here. He slipped away.
Again.
The bastard escaped from under my nose, like a rat scurrying back into the filth.
He’s free. Still breathing.
Still fucking breathing.
Giovanni lets out a low hiss.
“He escaped tonight, but no man runs forever. Sooner or later, he bleeds like the rest of them.”
Leonardo chuckles darkly, the sound low and humourless.
“Let him run,”
he says, voice dripping with disdain.
“It’ll only make dragging him back all the more gratifying.”
I hear them, their voices cut through the stagnant air, but none of it registers. My world has narrowed to a single, blinding point.
My wife.
I must get her out of this godforsaken place. She requires medical attention, immediate, uncompromising care. I have to see her breathing. Speaking.
Living.
Then, and only then, I will hunt that wretched bastard down, tear him from whatever gutter he’s slithered into, and make him beg for a death I won’t grant.
A small sound tears me from my thoughts. I glance down, Harlow is coughing. The sound soft. Shallow. Weak. It slices straight through me, far too wet, far too wrong.
I move to lift her, but I hesitate. My hands hover inches from her body. I’m terrified to touch her.
Terrified I’ll do more harm than good.
Terrified she’ll break beneath my fingers.
She raises a trembling hand to her mouth, as if trying to muffle the sound. To be quiet. And when that delicate hand falls away, limp at her side... I see the blood staining it.
Fresh. Bright. Stark against her pale skin.
It’s as if I’ve been struck across the chest. No armour. No warning. Just pain, raw, searing, all consuming.
This is not good. This is not fucking good.
“Fuck,”
I rasp through clenched teeth, the sound barely human.
“Harlow… stay with me, love. Stay with me.”
I’m not above pleading. Not for her. Not when death feels this close, when it breathes down my neck wearing her name.
I slide one arm beneath her knees, the other cradling her spine, and draw her against my chest like something sacred.
She’s weightless. Her body is so small now. So impossibly fragile. I can feel everything, her ribs, shoulder blades. Her spine a sharp ridge beneath bruised skin.
She’s wasting away. Starved. Hollowed out.
“Do you need help?”
Leonardo asks.
I don’t even look at him.
“If you touch my wife,”
I say, venom laced through every syllable.
“I’ll put a bullet between your eyes. Family or not.”
He nods once and steps back. He understands. He’s seen this side of me before. And he knows better than to test it now.
My chest aches with guilt, with rage, with the unbearable knowledge that I failed her. But there’s no time for self-pity. No room for weakness.
I hold her tighter against me, possessive and desperate. As if she’ll vanish again if I so much as loosen my grip. I carry her up the stairs, every step carving itself into my bones. She coughs again, quieter this time. Her fingers twitch against my chest. She’s here, in my arms, breathing.
Once outside, the night closes in, humid and heavy, thick with the scent of old stone and damp earth. I see our men scattered across the perimeter, weapons drawn, eyes sharp. They’re patrolling the territory. Searching.
Giovanni and Michael step ahead, wordless but alert. They take the lead, forging the path back toward where we abandoned the vehicles.
“This way,”
Giovanni mutters, voice clipped, authoritative. Michael gives a terse nod, scanning the darkness like he’s willing it to bleed answers.
Mario falls in step beside me. Leonardo, too, their silence says more than words ever could. Enzo trails behind, guarding our flank with the silent vigilance of a man prepared to kill at the first misstep.
“You sure you don’t want help carrying her?”
Mario asks. He glances down at Harlow in my arms, and for a brief moment, I catch the flicker of concern in his eyes.
“The SUVs are at least two miles out. You’ll feel every step.”
I turn my head and meet his gaze, unblinking. I don’t say a word. I don’t have to. The answer is written in every line of my face. Harlow is in my arms now, and I am never fucking letting her go again.
I didn’t even realize how far we’d come when we were tearing through this forest, searching like madmen. The cars feel a lifetime away. But when she coughs again, strained, wet, I quicken my pace. My arms tighten around her, and I walk faster. Urgency bleeding into every step. My body aches, my breath shortens, but I do not stop. I would carry her through hell itself. I don’t give a damn if it’s two miles or a thousand. She needs a doctor. And I’ll be damned if I don’t get her help within the hour.
Because I will save her. I have to save her. I don’t know what’s left of her, what she’s seen, what she’s endured, what kind of godless hell she survived down there in that stone crypt.
But I’ll bring her back.
To me.
To us.
That’s not hope.
That’s a fucking promise.