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“Your father won’t think so,” Fabrizio says, his tone deceptively casual. “I wonder how he’ll react when I tell him his precious son married the daughter of his greatest enemy? That you’ve been harboring a DeLuca under his nose all this time?”

Terror grips me, not for myself, but for Aria. If my father discovers who she is…

“What’s your price?” I ask flatly.

“There’s nothing you can offer I can’t take for myself!” Fabrizio sounds delighted.

“I want my wife back,” I hiss. “I’ll doanything.”

“You’re mistaken if you think she’s a hostage up for negotiation. I wanted to kill her, you know, just to see you shatter at her funeral. But then I realized, she’s the best leverage I’ve ever had. Fuck you, Marco!”

The call disconnects before I can respond. I look up to find every man in the room watching me, faces taut with tension.

The room is silent. My pulse is not.

She’s out there. And I let her go.

“He knows,” I say unnecessarily to Nicolo.

Nicolo steps closer, lowering his voice. “If your father finds out?—”

“He won’t,” I cut him off. “Because we’re going to get her back tonight.”

“What are you saying, boss?” one of my men asks, paling.

“We take war to his door.” I’m already formulating plans and discarding options. “Because D’Angelo doesn’t know what I’m willing to do to get her back.”

I turn to Nicolo. “Find Chiara. Bring her here—alive and unharmed. We need both sisters under our protection now.”

“And if she refuses to come?”

“Make her understand how much trouble Aria is in. For her sister, she will come.” I stride to the door. “Prepare the men. Full tactical gear. Bring on the trackers. We must find where he’s keeping her.”

The rage inside me has crystallized into something harder, sharper, more focused.

I will burn the world down tonight if that’s what it takes to bring Aria home. And tomorrow? Tomorrow I’ll face whatever consequences come—from my father, Aria herself, and the blood debt between us.

But first, I need to get her back. I need her safe in my arms, even if she hates me. Even if she never forgives me.

Because I can live with her hatred. But I cannot—will not—live without her.

Let them come. Let them all come. I’m bringing her home.

23

ARIA

Iwake gasping, tangled in silk sheets that don’t belong to me. My head throbs with fragmented memories—Marco’s confession, our fight, my desperate escape that clearly failed. I sit up too quickly, the room spinning around me as I remember the rough hands on me, how they grabbed and pulled me into a moving van before it all went black.

This room isn’t a cell, but I know a cage when I see one, no matter how gilded.

The chandelier above sparkles like it’s throwing a party. Too bad I’m the guest of honor in a hostage drama.

The room reeks of gaudy opulence—crystal vases and porcelain figurines that have no business in a bedroom. It’s wealth without taste, like someone ordered everything off a catalog page just to feel powerful.

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, relieved to find I’m still wearing the clothes I fled in—jeans and a sweater, though my shoes are missing. No restraints bind my wrists or ankles. The door lacks visible locks. It’s almost as if I’m a guest rather than a prisoner.

But I’m not fooled.