Page 97 of His Son's Ex

I straighten, ignoring the knots twisting in my gut. “Dante won’t stop until he finds me.”

Linda shrugs. “He’ll find nothing. No note, no body, no leads. Just another heartbreak.”

Rage replaces fear, at least for a moment. “That’s low, even for you, Linda. You’d really risk everything, including your son’s life, for money and power?”

Her wicked grin widens. “You have no idea what I’m capable of.”

Gianni clasps his hands together in finality. “It’s nothing personal, Eva. Just business.”

My fists tighten, my nails digging into my palms. “I’m not going to make this easy for you.”

Linda laughs, an evil and bitter sound. “You already did. You waltzed straight into our hands.”

I glare at her then scan the room for an exit. Two bulky men appear behind me—Linda’s muscle. The fear is back. My gaze returns to her. “Fuck you.”

Linda’s smile is cruel as she steps toward me. She slaps me across the face so fast I barely register the flash of her hand. My cheek stings, and I taste blood on my lip. I slowly turn back to her, not giving her the satisfaction of knowing it hurt. Instead, I stare her down.

Gianni looks bored. “We don’t need any more speeches. Let’s get this done.”

Linda lifts a finger, her eyes never leaving mine. “On the contrary, Gianni. I want her to know why I’m doing this. Remember that wedding ambush? Gianni and I orchestrated that to show Dante he’s not invincible. You were nothing more than collateral damage, though you did prove useful as a distraction.”

My stomach churns, thinking of the gunmen at Luca’s wedding. All that violence. “You’re vile,” I mutter.

“I prefer practical.” She smirks, then turns to Gianni. “Alright, that’s enough talk now. Take her downstairs.”

A burst of desperate adrenaline surges through me. I lash out, kicking one henchman’s thigh. He staggers, but the other slams me into the desk, pain rattling my spine. I clamp my jaw shut to keep from crying out.

“Move,” Gianni orders coldly.

They drag me through a door revealing a narrow flight of stairs leading underground. The stale odor of mildew rises to meet us. Lights flicker overhead, each step downward feeling like a final descent. At the bottom of the stairs is a narrow corridor leading to a steel door. Beyond that is a cramped concrete cell with one decrepit cot. No windows, no exit, no hope.

My captors shove me forward, and I drop to my knees on the gritty floor.

Linda’s heels click behind me. “We’ll keep you alive for a while,” she says casually, “Let Dante assume you took off and left him. When the time’s right, we’ll dispose of you and that little bastard you’re carrying.”

Terror threatens to consume me, but I stay strong. “You’ll regret this,” I hiss, refusing to crumble.

Linda laughs. “Sure. I’ll regret it just as much as I regret leaving Dante all those years ago. Believe me, I’ve wanted him to suffer ever since.” She lingers in the doorway, arms crossed, chin high, drinking in the view of her little dungeon. “Don’t bother screaming,” she purrs, lips curling. She’s enjoying this too much. “This place is as sealed off as a grave. Pleasant dreams.”

The door slams with a theatrical finality. I hear the bolt being slid into place with a heavy click that echoes straight through my bones. Regardless, I lunge at it anyway, pounding my fists against the steel like I could break it by sheer will alone.

Breathing hard, I step back and look around. The sad excuse for a bulb overhead casts just enough light to show me that this hellhole is as charming as it smelled on the way down.

My cheek still stings from Linda’s little tantrum, but pain is good. It reminds me I’m still alive.

And pissed.

She thinks she’s won, thinks Dante will just shrug this off and move on. She has no idea the hell that’s about to be brought down on her.

I plop onto the cot and rub my belly. “Don’t worry, baby. Your mama’s not going out like this.” I mean every damn word.

On the other side of the door, Linda and Gianni are no doubt whispering about how they’re going to take out Dante and Isabella, then dance on what’s left of the Bellacino name. I can picture it in my mind—the two of them scheming over espresso, believing they’re criminal masterminds.

But they’ve underestimated the wrong woman.

I’m my father’s daughter. I’ve outmaneuvered hackers, mobsters, and manipulative snakes with better poker faces than Linda’s Botox-stretched smugness. They think I walked in here blind. They think I don’t know how to fight.

They’re wrong.