He moves faster than I expect, the politician's grace replaced by a panicked, desperate strength. His hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around my wrist hard enough to crush bone.
"You're not going anywhere," he says softly, his eyes gone flat and empty, devoid of the fear that had been fueling his frenzy.
"Danny, please—"
"Not until they're gone." He tightens his grip, dragging me back toward the mattress.
The light bulb above us flickers one last time, humming, then burns out completely, plunging the room into thick, suffocating shadow.
And for the first time since I woke up, I realize my brother isn't scared anymore. He's passed the point of panic.
He'swaiting.
Chapter 24
Two days.
Forty-eight hours.
That's how long it's been since Isabella vanished, since the sunlight revealed the violence in her old apartment, and the world hasn't stopped burning since. The fire is inside me—a cold, consuming inferno that refuses to let me sleep, eat, or think clearly.
The penthouse looks like a war zone, not because of violence, but because of neglect. Bottles of expensive scotch line the counter, untouched—half reminders of the control I used to wield, half accusations of the comfort I now refuse. Nicole has tried to keep everything in order, but every time someone gets near me, I snap.
The men—my most trusted inner circle, my shadow—keep their distance, communicating in low whispers, watching me like I'm a live weapon they can't afford to breathe near. Every randomnoise from the hallway makes me turn, muscles coiling; every shifting shadow feels like a lie, a betrayal I missed.
I exist on pure, corrosive adrenaline and the grinding certainty that every tick of that clock is a moment she is suffering.
Sofia's quiet now. Too quiet. That silence is the loudest, most terrifying sound in this fortress. She sits at the massive marble kitchen table most of the time, her little velvet rabbit clutched in her hands. The drawings she was working on—colorful, chaotic renderings of imaginary castles—are abandoned beside a bowl of untouched cereal.
Nicole tries to get her to eat, but Sofia just shakes her head, her face pale. She understands the gravity of the atmosphere better than any adult I pay to protect us.
"Is Bella mad at us?" she asked me this morning, her voice small, her eyes red from sleeplessness.
It gutted me. I crouched down to her level, my knees aching. I told her no. That Bella just had to go away for a few days to help someone important.
But my daughter isn't stupid. She's a Moretti—she can smell the blood in the air, same as anyone. She knows that when Papà stops smiling, someone else is going to bleed.
I haven't slept since the night we found her blood on the floor of that apartment. Every time I close my eyes, I see that small, dark stain. It's the only truth I've had in two days.
Alessandro has been holding the family together while I unravel. He handles the constant calls with the crew bosses, moves money like chess pieces to plug the leaks Danny DeLaurentis caused, and tightens alliances that are beginning to chafe under the mounting pressure. He's my second, but right now he's more than that. He's the chain, the physical tether keeping me from tearing the entire city apart piece by piece, turning this organized enterprise into a suicidal rampage.
It's late—maybe morning. I've lost track of time. The clock on the wall ticks, but I don't trust it. Time is measured now only in the gap between my last panicked breath and my next desperate order.
I'm standing near the window, staring out at nothing, my body vibrating with tension. Alessandro's in the office, talking in low, clipped tones to a crew boss in Brooklyn, securing the harbor routes against potential Russian opportunism.
The relative quiet is shattered when the office door slams open.
Rafe storms in, and the sheer force of his arrival makes the air crackle. His eyes are bloodshot and wild, his face unshaven, but his energy is buzzing off him like a live wire—the manic, sudden focus of a man who has finally broken through a wall. He has his laptop under his arm.
"I found it."
The voice is rough, exhausted, but triumphant. Both Alessandro and I snap our heads toward him.
Rafe doesn't stop moving; he slams the laptop onto the coffee table, flipping it open. "Offshore account. Cayman shell company. We hit the wall on the immediate transfer, but the money moved through a holding trust three weeks ago to buy property just outside the city limits, in an industrial zone. The name on the trust matches DeLaurentis."
My head snaps up, my vision tunneling immediately to the screen. "Her brother?"
He nods, pointing to a rapid-fire succession of data streams. "It's dirty money. The deed was filed under a fake business license—but the coordinates ping off an IP I've been tracing since her email was first hacked."
