Chapter 43
~Dominic~
Zen Nightclub.
“You’re right, these numbers don’t add up.” I muttered, tapping my pen against the desk. My other hand raked through my hair, frustration mounting. More than half a million was missing—five hundred and fifty thousand, to be exact. “I don’t have time for this shit right now,” I growled.
The office was soundproof, muting the pounding music from the nightclub below.
Through the glass wall, patrons swayed in dim light, oblivious.
Dante stood a few feet away, one palm pressed against the privacy glass, the other buried in his pocket.
He hadn’t moved, eyes fixed on the crowd below, while I tore through the accounts.
When Dante alerted me to the theft, I had to see the accounts myself. Now it’s clear—Carmine Fiore has been skimming from the club, doctoring the books to hide his misdeeds. Dante turned from the glass, his voice steady. “I’ll take care of Carmine for you, brother.”
Carmine had been our accountant since my father’s time, trusted and skilled.
That history was the only reason I kept him when I took control of the Family.
And now he’s betrayed us. “Carmine has never dared to steal before,” I muttered, stepping into Dante’s spot by the glass.
My gaze swept the crowd below. “He knew we’d find out. Why risk it?”
“Yeah, I agree. I’ll make him squeal, then gut him,” Dante says. “There’s more at play here than just a greedy accountant,” I reply, my instincts gnawing at me. “Don’t worry, Dom. I’ll handle it. I’ll let you know what I find.” He pauses at the door, turning back. “Any word on Elle’s location?”
My hands tighten in my pockets, fists clenched with frustration. “Nothing.” I don’t want to discuss Elle—not now. I cut him off. “Deal with Fiore, Dante.” He studies me in silence, eyes heavy with unspoken judgment, then shakes his head before leaving.
Alone at last, my frustration gnaws at me. Months have passed, and still I cannot find my angel. She vanished without a trace, convinced I betrayed her. I should have let Dario and Dante handle Salvatore and Berisha, and taken Elle back to the mansion myself.
Now she is out there—alone, unprotected.
Brio Leone and his wife slipped away before my men could reach them.
By now, word of his scheming daughter’s death will have reached him, and I have no doubt he’ll lay the blame on Elle.
The only solace is this: if all my resources cannot find her, then neither can he.
Getting rid of the Albanians and my scheming uncle five months ago are the only positive things that came of the events of that damn fucked up night.
The night that cost me my wife. Once the news of Alban Berisha’s death reached his remaining men, together with my strong suggestion that they relocate, they were gone within twenty-four hours.
News of the fire that destroyed Alban’s mansion dominated national television.
Authorities blamed a gas leak. The mansion was reduced to rubble, the party guests were burnt alive as alarms and sprinklers failed.
The cleanup crew staged it flawlessly. I couldn’t contain my amusement while I watched the report.
Yet thoughts of that night bring back the frustration and fear I felt when Dante called. At first, I thought Elle had been taken again. But no—she had left of her own accord.
After the call, Dario and I rushed to meet Dante.
He was pacing in front of his SUV, agitation written across his face.
My own fury boiled over—I couldn’t think straight.
Before I knew it, I was out of the vehicle, grabbing Dante by the collar, shouting in his face.
The shock in his eyes mirrored my own loss of control.
Dario pulled me back, forcing distance between us.
My chest heaved, anger and regret twisting inside me.
When I finally calmed, Dante straightened his jacket, his voice steady as he explained what had happened.
Dante reminded me of the head injury Elle had suffered during her abduction by Catalina and her father.
On the drive back to the mansion, she began to feel unwell and asked him to stop.
He pulled into the dimly lit parking lot of a convenience store.
As soon as the SUV halted, Elle pushed open the back door and leaned out, retching until her stomach was empty.
Concerned and unsure how to help, Dante asked if there was anything he could do. She requested water and painkillers. Leaving her in the backseat, he hurried inside the store.
When he returned minutes later, Elle was gone. Panic surged through him as he scanned the lot. The SUV was the only vehicle there, the night eerily quiet, with only a lone clerk on duty.
It was all I could do to keep myself together. There was no one else to blame—only me. No matter how much I wanted to fault Dante for losing sight of her, the truth was brutal. I had failed my angel.
There were cameras recording outside the store Dante had gone into. We moved fast to seize the tapes. The clerk, barely more than a kid, was working the graveyard shift alone. When we stormed in with weapons drawn, he froze, terror flooding his face. He thought it was a robbery.
The confusion in his eyes when I demanded the surveillance tapes at gunpoint might have been almost comical under different circumstances.
His hands shook as he fumbled to comply.
When we turned and walked out without taking a cent, he collapsed onto the stool behind the register, trembling with relief.
The memory of that footage still haunts me. My wife slipped away from the car park the moment my brother stepped inside the store. Dante’s black jacket hung loosely over her shoulders, swallowing her petite frame. She hunched forward, bracing against the bite of the December night.
Crossing the street, she glanced back again and again, as if afraid of being followed. Then a bus pulled up, its bulk cutting her off from the camera’s view. Less than a minute later, when the bus rolled away, Elle was gone.
I stare down at the crowded dance floor, but my mind isn’t on the revelry below. All I can think about is Elle—her absence gnawing at me. The sudden ring of my phone jolts me back. “Yeah.” My grip on the phone hardens. “You’ve got to be shitting me. Fucking bastard.”
I’m already moving, leaving the office behind and heading toward the ground level of the club. The music grows louder with each step. “I’m on my way.”
By the time I end the call, I’ve pushed through the private section and out into the main corridor. My bodyguards fall in line, nodding as they follow me out of the building.