Chapter 46 He’ll Regret The Day He Was Ever Born
He’ll Regret The Day He Was Ever Born
I learned to drive today. I know it seems like I’m too young, but I’ve grown up a lot since coming here. Maybe one day you’ll see what I mean. —Forever yours, Enzo
Enzo
My phone rings just as Dante bursts through the door of the office.
“Boss,” he wheezes, hands on his knees.
“What is it?” Papa snaps.
“Izzy’s been taken.”
Static. That’s the only way to explain the buzzing in my ears.
Papa’s voice stays calm as he demands explanations. “From the beginning.”
Dante stands to attention. “The team you had tailing her saw a black SUV grab her. They tried to get to her, but they didn’t get there quick enough.”
“How long?” I grit out, my words strained as my jaw tenses.
There's a moment of hesitation before he speaks. “Five minutes.”
Fuck. “The SUV?”
“We’re in pursuit.”
I force air into my lungs. Force myself to swallow despite the fear clogging my throat.
She’s okay. She’ll be okay. She has to be.
Izzy’s been taken.
My phone rings again.
I snarl into it. “What?”
“We lost them.” Rafael’s voice is a mixture of trepidation and dejection.
My knees weaken. I steady myself, knuckles white on the wooden desk. “Have you run the plates?”
“Stolen.”
Breathe.
Izzy’s been taken.
I don’t bother with goodbye as I hit end on the call.
“Dante,” I say, my voice dangerously low. “Get the team scouring surveillance. Any glimpses of that car, I want to know.”
He nods, hesitating for only a moment before he turns and leaves.
“Papa.” My voice wavers just slightly.
His fingers dig into my shoulder. “This is our entire focus. You have all of us.”
Izzy’s been taken.
I squeeze the desk so hard my arms shake.
One name. One name comes to mind.
And when I find him?
He’ll regret the day he was ever born.
“We found the car.”
“Izzy?” The hope in my voice sounds hollow, even to my own ears.
A sigh comes from Rafael on the other side of the phone. “Sorry, Sir. Looks like they switched vehicles. Couldn’t have been long ago. This one was torched—hasn’t been burning for more than an hour.”
“Get a team to sweep it. I want every inch combed for evidence—anything that could tell us where they’re taking her.”
I hang up, my head dropping to my chest.
Pain flares inside me.
Where is she? What’s happening to her?
The images flashing through my head are unbearable. She’s already been through so much. How much more can she take before it breaks her completely?
My phone rings again.
“What?” I snarl, not checking who’s calling.
“Oh—Is now a bad time?”
Carina.
I close my eyes. Take a breath.
“Izzy’s been kidnapped.”
A tiny gasp sounds in my ear. “Oh… Enzo. What do you need?”
“There’s nothing you can—” a thought comes to me, “actually—is Kai there?”
“Yeah, hang on, I’ll put you on speaker.”
There’s a shuffle and whispers.
“How can I help?” Kai asks, his tone controlled.
“If I send you some information, can you look into someone for me. Any hidden properties they might have, known associates, anything that might help me find Izzy.”
“Of course, all I need is a name.”
“Marcus Whitfield.”
“You need to sleep, son.”
I push Papa’s hand off my shoulder. “I need to find Izzy.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just watches me steadily.
“You won’t be any good to her running on fumes. Get some rest. Keep looking in the morning.”
My mouth opens, ready to argue. But he’s right. My eyes are heavy, my thoughts a fog. I nod, reluctantly.
The moment I step into the bedroom, her scent hits me. Honeysuckle. So her it physically hurts. My knees nearly give out.
I drop onto her side of the bed, exhaustion dragging me down.
That’s when I notice it—her nightstand drawer is slightly ajar.
I’m not the type to snoop. But I need something. Anything. Some piece of her to hold onto.
I pull the drawer open.
My brow furrows.
A small box, wrapped with a bright green bow, rests inside. My name is scrawled on the front in her delicate, familiar handwriting.
I shouldn’t open it.
But I do.
Carefully, I untie the bow. Lift the lid.
Inside is a blue and white pregnancy test.
Positive.
My breath catches.
I reach deeper into the box and pull out a tiny baby sleeper. White cotton. The lettering on the front reads: “Mafia Daddy.”
Any other time, I would’ve rolled my eyes at her dramatics.
Now?
“Iz…” I whisper. It’s only when I taste the salt on my lips that I realize my eyes are wet, tears slipping down my cheeks.
She’s pregnant.
My wife is pregnant.
And she’s gone.
Marcus Whitfield hasn’t just taken Izzy.
He’s taken my unborn child.