A savage laugh leaves me as I keep scrolling, jaw locked so hard it aches. Every message feels like another insult. Another betrayal. Another reminder that while I was drowning in rage and grief, Russo was already building something with her in secret.
Was she running to him? Or was he reeling her in? Right now, I can’t tell. And the uncertainty only makes me angrier.
My hand tightens around the phone.
“So,” I say softly, “he gave her a secret phone, kept contact with her for months, and now threatens bloodshed the second I have her back.”
Cesaro inclines his head. “That appears to be the situation.”
I look up.
“Appears?”
He doesn’t flinch. “It’s enough to act on, boss. Not enough to close the matter.”
No. Not enough to close it. But enough to start and enough to justify what comes next.
I set the phone down with care I do not feel. “He played me.”
Cesaro is silent.
I smile without humor. “That was his mistake.”
Because if Dante Russo orchestrated any part of this—if he used the chaos that night, used her fear, used her grief, used whatever she felt for me against both of us?—
Then this is no longer a man stealing what another man wanted. My gaze drifts toward the ceiling, toward the room upstairs. Toward the woman who may have been deceived… or may have deceived me right alongside him.
Either way, the fury in me is now too large to contain neatly.
“Get me everything,” I say. “Bank records. Calls. associates. Flights. Security footage. I want every man Russo used, every place he touched, every lie he told.”
Cesaro nods once. “Yes, boss.”
“And Cesaro?”
“Yes, sir?”
I pick the burner phone back up and stare at the glowing screen.
“If he was behind the shooting…”
I let the rest hang there for a beat, because we both know what it means.
When I finally look up, my voice is cold enough to freeze blood.
“I don’t want him ruined. I want him buried.” I pause. “And I’ll deal with her baby later.”
“Her—” Cesaro’s face hardens in understanding. “She’s pregnant?”
“Yes.”
I’m too wired to go upstairs and lie beside Elizabeth—my Elizabeth, who looked me in the eye and lied so sweetly to my face—so I go to my study instead, closing the door behind me with more force than necessary.
The couch is lumpy as hell, but it’s better than sharing the same air as her, pretending I don’t feel betrayed down to the marrow.
I stretch out, one arm over my eyes, and stare at the ceiling in the dark. My mind will not shut off.
If Russo was behind the shooting at the apartment, then heknew I’d take Sienna home where she’d be safe. He knew my instincts. Knew my patterns. Knew exactly how I would respond under pressure.
