We swept through the space like silent, professional predators, Alessandro clearing each room with the methodical efficiency of a man who'd done this a thousand times, while I followed close behind, my gun drawn but held low. The air was still, heavy with the residual scent of her perfume and something else.
"Dante," Alessandro called softly.
He was kneeling near the window, where the silver light bled across the hardwood floor, his hand hovering inches above the polished surface.
I crossed the room, the sudden silence of my own breathing deafening. I crouched beside him, my muscles screaming with tension.
Then I saw it. A small smear of crimson streaked across the floor, almost hidden by the long shadow cast by the wall. It wasn't a pool; it was just a drag mark —an accidental transfer.
Alessandro looked up at me, his eyes dark with the realization. "Could've been here before. Someone could've cut themselves earlier—"
I didn't listen. I reached down, my hand shaking slightly, and swiped my fingers through the dark stain. My gaze never left the floor. I held my hand up, bringing the slick substance closer to the faint, reflected light.
Wet.
I stared at the dark, viscous sheen against my skin, the air burning in my lungs. I felt the heat of it. It was fresh.
"Wet," I repeated, the word scraping out of me like a low, terrifying growl.
For a moment, neither of us spoke. The only sound was the distant city hum and the ragged inhale of my own breath.
She was innocent. My Bella had been taken.
Alessandro straightened slowly. "We'll find her. We'll bring her back." His voice was devoid of emotion, pure resolve.
I stood too, ignoring the faint, cold sting of the blood on my fingers. I stared out the window at the city beyond—the endless sprawl of glass and light and sin that had just swallowed the only woman who made me feel human.
When I finally spoke, my voice was low, certain, and utterly devoid of mercy.
"We don't stop," I said. "Not until I have her back, not until her brother is begging for a quick death."
My eyes caught the smear of blood one last time, the reflection of it burning like a wound in the floor.
"...or everything burns." The promise was a cold, quiet oath to the city, to my enemies, and to the woman who dared to leave my protection. I would tear the city apart to find her.
Chapter 23
The room smells like rot and old cigarettes, a scent that seems to cling to the back of my throat.
Wallpaper curls off the walls in yellowed strips, the kind of place where time gave up long before the people inside it did. A single light bulb swings from the ceiling on a fraying cord, its weak, sickly glow cutting through the oppressive dusk that leaks in from the boarded windows. Every few seconds, it flickers —a sharp, buzzing pulse —and each erratic beat makes my own heart stutter in time.
I'm sitting on a stained mattress in the corner, every muscle screaming with tension. My wrists ache from the crude zip-ties he used earlier, though he removed them after I woke up—a false show of trust. My head pounds from whatever drug he jabbed into my neck in the penthouse garage. Danny paces in front ofme—fast, jittery steps that scuff against warped floorboards. His hands twist, flex, then clench again, the restless energy of a man on the edge of a precipice.
"Danny," I whisper. My throat's dry, voice shaking. "Please. Talk to me."
He doesn't answer. He's muttering to himself, a continuous, anxious stream of sound, the words slipping too fast between his teeth. I only catch fragments—"Russians... deal gone wrong... should've stayed quiet...."
My stomach twists, not just with fear, but with a nauseating understanding of the depths he's sunk to.
"Danny, you're scaring me," I say, forcing my voice steady. "Where are we?"
He spins toward me, eyes wild and unfocused, then laughs—sharp and wrong, like shattering glass. "Safe, Isa. We're safe now. Away fromthem."
I flinch at the venom in his voice. "Who?"
"The Morettis," he spits, pacing again, his hands chopping the air in frustrated gestures. "They think they can control everything, every election, every market, but they can't. They're going to burn, and then it's over. Then you and I can go back to normal."
The words don't fit him—the calm, polished political golden boy everyone adored. This man's voice cracks in strange places; sweat runs down his temples, carving clean paths through the grime on his skin. He looks hollowed out, consumed by something I don't recognize.
