“I told you about the bikes.” My voice is flat. Dead. “Keys in the ignition. Every time.”
“I know.”
I step forward. Nico doesn’t move.
Dante’s hand closes on my shoulder. Not gentle. The grip of a man who’s broken up worse between us.
“Enough.” Low. The Don’s voice, but the eyes are my brother’s. “This isn’t on him and you know it.”
My hands close into fists. He’s right. I don’t care.
“I said enough, Renzo.”
I shrug his hand off. Drop the helmet at Nico’s feet. Walk back to the SUV.
Behind me, Nico picks it up.
Two hours later, my phone rings.
The war room is chaos controlled. Marco at three monitors, cycling through camera feeds. Nico working his contacts, phone pressed to his ear, speaking low Italian to people whose names I’ll never ask. Dante coordinating everything, holding the operation together the way he always does. And me. Pacing. Running scenarios that all end the same way. Too late.
My phone buzzes against my thigh. I pull it out. Unknown number.
I answer.
“Looking for someone, Santoro?” Smooth. Cultured. A voice that orders expensive wine and death warrants in the same breath. I’ve never heard it before, but I know exactly who it belongs to.
Flavio Benedetti.
“Where is she.”
“Straight to business. I appreciate that.” He sounds pleased. Amused. Like this is entertainment. “She’s with me. Safe, for now. We’re having a lovely conversation.”
My hand tightens on the phone. The plastic creaks.
“If you touch her.”
“You’ll what?” He cuts me off, still entertained. “Kill me? You were always going to kill me, Lorenzo. This just makes it more interesting.”
“What do you want?”
“What do I want?” He savors the question. “I want you to suffer. I want you to know she’s here, with me, and there’s nothing you can do about it. Not yet.” A pause. “She and I are going to have a conversation. About everything she knows about your family. Your security. Your weaknesses. She’s been quite thorough in her research.”
“She won’t tell you anything.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. But that’s between her and me, isn’t it? You’re not part of this conversation, Lorenzo. You’re just listening.”
The line goes dead.
I lower the phone. Stare at the screen. Call ended.
She’s with Flavio. Flavio Benedetti. The man whose operation has moved thousands of women through ports and warehouses and places that exist so people can disappear.
Flavio has Isabella.
I grab the table edge.
“I recorded the call.” Marco. Already typing. “Working on the trace.”
