Chapter 20 Santino
I'm at home when her text comes through.
Liana: At the port. Being followed.
I stare at the message, reading it twice to make sure I'm seeing it correctly. The port? What the hell is she doing at the port at this hour?
I read it again, focusing on those two words: "Being followed."
My first instinct is anger—sharp and immediate and flooding through my veins like poison.
She's doing it again. Playing games. Trying to manipulate me into reacting.
She wants me to panic, to drop everything and rush down to the port like some desperate fool.
And when I get there, she'll either not be there at all, or she'll have "mistaken" a shadow for a man, a stray cat for a threat.
She'll look at me with those wide, innocent eyes and say she was scared, that she needed me, that she didn't know what else to do.
And I'll look like an idiot. Again.
I set down my phone without responding and take a long drink of my scotch.
Why would she even be at the port? What possible reason could she have for being there at night, in one of the most dangerous areas of the city?
Unless she's meeting someone there.
Is that where she's been going when she says she's busy with things? Is she meeting someone at the port, someone she doesn't want me to know about?
And now she wants me to catch her, wants the drama of being discovered.
Or worse—she wants me to find her with someone else. Wants me to see it with my own eyes. To make me break the engagement so she doesn't have to, so she can play the victim while I look like the jealous, controlling bastard.
I drain my glass and pour another, the scotch sloshing over the rim.
I'm not playing this game anymore.
I'm not rushing down to the port to find her laughing with whoever she's been seeing, or to find nothing at all.
I grab my keys and head out the door. But not to the port. To the social club instead.
Bruno and Paulie are there when I arrive, playing cards at the back table in the dimly lit room that smells of cigar smoke and aged whiskey.
"Boss." Bruno looks up, surprise evident on his face. "Didn't expect to see you tonight."
"I needed to get out of my apartment before I put my fist through something expensive." I drop into an empty chair with more force than necessary. "You got anything to drink?"
Paulie pours me a generous glass from the bottle on the table. "Rough night?"
"You could say that." I take a long drink, welcoming the burn.
I tell them about the text, about Liana claiming she's at the port being followed.
"The port?" Bruno frowns, setting down his cards. "What would she be doing at the port at this hour?"
"Exactly my question. She won't tell me what she does all day, where she goes, who she sees.
Just says 'things' and changes the subject.
And now suddenly she's at the port? At night?
Being followed?" I shake my head, disgust flooding through me.
"She's messing with me. Testing me to see if I'll come running. I’m sick of this shit. "
"Or she's actually in trouble," Bruno suggests carefully.
"She's not in trouble. She's manipulating me.
Again." I take another drink, the alcohol doing nothing to ease the tightness in my chest. "This is what she does—hot and cold, push and pull.
She removes all her stuff from my apartment, ignores my calls for days, acts like she doesn't care about me or this arrangement—and then suddenly she needs me? Suddenly she's in danger?"
"Could be real this time," Paulie offers quietly.
"It's not real. Trust me on this." I lean back in my chair. "If I go down there, I'll either find nothing, or I'll find her with whoever she's been seeing. Either way, I'm the idiot who came running when she snapped her fingers."
Bruno and Paulie exchange a glance.
"What?" I ask sharply.
"Nothing. It's just..." Bruno chooses his words carefully, the way he does when he thinks I won't like what he has to say. "You've been saying she's seeing someone else. But what if you're wrong about that? What if something actually happened to her?"
"Then she can call the police. Or her father. Or literally anyone except me." I finish my drink and reach for the bottle. "I'm done being her puppet, done dancing when she pulls the strings."
"Boss—"
"I said I'm done." I stand abruptly, needing to move. "Deal me in, I'm staying here."
We play cards for a while. Drink. Talk about business—the shipping contracts, the usual concerns. Normal conversation that should distract me. But I check my phone every few minutes, unable to stop myself.
No new texts from Liana. Nothing.
She's realized I'm not coming, that I'm not playing her game anymore.
An hour passes, then two. We're deep into a hand when I lose track of what cards have been played. The nagging feeling in my gut gets worse with each passing minute, growing from a whisper to a shout.
What if Bruno's right? What if something actually happened and I'm sitting here playing cards while she's—
No. She's fine. She's probably home by now, probably laughing about how I didn't come running like she expected. Probably planning her next move in whatever game she's playing.
Three hours after the initial text, I can't take it anymore. The doubt has grown into something I can't ignore. I pull out my phone with hands that aren't quite steady.
Me: Are you okay?
I hit send and wait, staring at the screen. The message delivers successfully. But no read receipt appears. No three dots indicating she's typing a response.
I wait five minutes, counting each second.
Nothing.
Ten minutes pass.
Still nothing.
"Something wrong?" Bruno asks, noticing my distraction.
"She's not responding to my message."
"Maybe she's asleep. It's late."
"Or maybe she turned off her phone because she's pissed I didn't come running when she wanted me to." I stare at my screen, willing it to light up. "Or maybe..."
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe this wasn't a game.
The thought sends cold dread through my chest. I pull up her sister, Gia's contact. She might actually know where she is.
Me: Is Liana home?
The response comes back quickly, almost immediately.
Gia: No. I thought she was with you. Why?
Fuck. Fuck.
Me: She texted me hours ago. Said she was at the port. Being followed.
Gia: WHAT?
Gia: When was this??
Me: Three hours ago.
Gia: And you're just NOW asking about her?!
Gia: What the hell is wrong with you?!
Me: I thought she was playing games.
Gia: PLAYING GAMES?! She texted you that she was being FOLLOWED and you thought it was a GAME?!
My hands are shaking now, trembling so badly I can barely hold the phone.
Me: Go wake your father. Tell him to call me. Now.
Gia: You're damn right I'm waking him. You’re an asshole, Santino.
I stand abruptly and pace the length of the room, unable to stay still. Every second feels like an hour, every minute an eternity.
My phone rings, the sound cutting through the room like a gunshot.
Dominic Costa. Her father.
I answer immediately. "Don Dominic—"
"What the fuck is going on?" His voice is ice and fury combined, the tone of a man who's about to commit murder. "My daughter texted you three hours ago that she was being followed and you did nothing?"
"I thought—"
"You thought what? That she was lying? That my daughter would joke about being in danger?" His voice rises with each word. "Where is she? Have you found her?"
"No, I—"
"You what? You're calling me at midnight to tell me my daughter is missing and you have no idea where she is?!"
"I'm going to find her—"
"You should have found her three hours ago!" He's shouting now, full rage unleashed. "I agreed to this alliance to protect her. To keep her safe. And you—you let her disappear because you thought she was playing games?"
"Don Dominic, I'm sorry—"
"Sorry? You’re sorry?" I can hear him breathing hard, struggling to control himself. "I trusted you with the most precious thing in my life. I gave you my daughter. And you—"
He stops abruptly. I hear something in the background—a woman's voice, probably Elena trying to calm him down.
My phone buzzes in my hand, vibrating against my ear.
"Hold on," I say to Dominic, my voice rough. "I'm getting a message."
I pull the phone away from my ear to look at the screen.
A text. From Liana's number.
A photo attachment.
I open it with fingers that won't stop shaking.
My heart stops beating.
It’s a photo of Liana.
In a dark room that looks like an abandoned warehouse. Sitting in a metal chair. Her wrists zip-tied behind her back, bleeding and raw. Her ankles bound to the chair legs.
Her face is turned toward the camera. Eyes wide with fear. Mascara smudged.
There's a cut on her cheek, dark and angry. Blood on her lip from where it's split.
Someone hurt her. Someone has her.
My Liana.
And I did nothing. For three hours, I sat in a social club playing cards and drinking while she was—
"Marcello!" Dominic's voice cuts through my shock like a knife. "What's going on? What did you see?"
"I just—" My voice cracks, breaks completely. "A photo. From her phone. Someone just sent me a photo."
"What photo? What are you talking about?"
"Of Liana." I can barely force the words out past the constriction in my throat. "She's tied to a chair. In what looks like a warehouse. She’s alive but there's blood—" I stop, unable to continue.
Silence on the other end of the line. Heavy and terrible. Then, in a voice that promises death. "Send it to me. Now."
My hands shake so badly I can barely navigate the phone, but I manage to forward the image to him.
"I'm coming to your location," Dominic says, his voice deadly calm now, which is somehow worse than the shouting. "Where are you?"
"The social club. Via Colombo."
"I'll be there in ten minutes. And Marcello?"
"Yes?" My voice sounds hollow, distant.
"If anything happens to my daughter because of your negligence, this alliance is over. And so are you. Do you understand me? If anything happens to her, you’re a dead man."
He hangs up before I can respond.
My phone buzzes again immediately. Another text from her number.
But not from her. I know it's not from her.
We have something that belongs to you. Call this number if you want her back.
A phone number follows. Not one I recognize. I stare at the photo again, unable to look away from it.
At her face. At the fear in her eyes that I've never seen before.
At the blood that proves this is real.
At the evidence of my catastrophic failure.
"Boss?" Bruno's voice sounds far away, like he's speaking from the end of a long tunnel. "Boss, what's wrong? What happened?"
I can't speak. Can't breathe. Can't do anything except stare at that photo.
She was telling the truth. She was really being followed. She needed me.
And I left her there. Alone with these bastards. I ignored her cry for help. I let this happen because I was too busy being paranoid and jealous and stupid.
"Boss!" Bruno grabs my arm, shaking me. "What is it? What's on your phone?"
I turn the phone toward him, unable to find words.
He looks at the photo. Goes pale, all the color draining from his face.
"Shit," he breathes. "Is that—"
"Liana." My voice is hollow, empty of everything except horror. "Someone has Liana."
"Who?" Paulie asks, moving closer. "Who took her?"
"I don't know." I look at the phone number, memorizing it. "But I'm going to find out."
I'm going to find whoever did this. I'm going to find them and I'm going to make them regret the day they were born. I'm going to make them pay for every second of fear she's experiencing, for every drop of blood they've drawn.
But first, I have to live with the fact that this is my fault.
She texted me for help. She reached out when she was in danger. And I thought it was a game. I thought she was manipulating me.
The image of her face—scared, hurt, alone, waiting for help that didn't come—burns into my mind like a brand.
I failed her. When she needed me most, when it actually mattered, I failed her completely.
And now I have to figure out how to get her back.
If it's not already too late.