Page 91

I recognize the setup for what it is: an interrogation chamber designed for cleanup after messy work is completed.

A man sits bound to the chair, head hanging forward so his face isn't visible. But I know immediately who it is the second he lifts his head with a slight wobble.

Antonio Castellano Jr.

Francesca's brother.

"Oh my god," Francesca whispers, her body going rigid. "Antonio..."

The camera zooms in, revealing the full extent of his condition. His expensive suit is torn and stained, his face beaten nearly beyond recognition. One eye swollen shut, lips split and bleeding.

The pristine Castellano heir has been reduced to bloody pulp.

A gloved hand enters the frame, gripping Antonio's hair to yank his head back. His remaining good eye flutters open, focusing briefly on the camera. There's a desperation there that makes even my hardened heart clench with recognition.

I've seen that look before. In the eyes of men who know death approaches.

"Say hello to your sister, Mr. Castellano," a voice commands from off-camera. The accent is distinctly Russian.Volkov.

Antonio's split lips tremble. "F-Frannie..." he manages, blood bubbling between his teeth. "Don't... come... t-trap..."

The hand in his hair tightens, cutting off his warning. The camera pans out to show a muscular man standing behind Antonio, face deliberately kept out of frame.

"Dante Ravelli," the voice continues. "We have a proposition for you."

Francesca's hand finds mine, her fingers gripping with bruising intensity. I hold on just as tightly, anchoring her as the heart-shattering video continues.

"We have something you want," the voice says as Antonio's head is released, allowing him to slump forward again. "And you have something we want. A simple exchange."

The camera pans to a digital clock on the wall, displaying a timestamp from twelve hours ago.

"Bring us Nico Ravelli, and the Castellano boy lives. You have twenty-four hours to deliver him to the coordinates that will follow. Come alone. No weapons. No tricks."

The screen goes dark, then flickers back to show Antonio once more. The torturer leans down, his mouth near Antonio's ear though his face remains off-camera.

"Tell your sister what happens if they don't comply."

Antonio shakes his head weakly, earning him a vicious backhand that snaps his head to the side. Fresh blood sprays from his reopened wounds.

"Tell her!" the voice commands.

Antonio's remaining eye finds the camera, focusing with visible effort. "Frannie... they'll send me back to you in pieces," he whispers. "Starting with my eyes."

The video ends abruptly, replaced by a set of coordinates and a countdown clock.Twelve hours remaining.

Francesca's face has drained of all color, her eyes fixed on the now-dark screen with the horror of someone whose worst nightmare has materialized before them.

"Antonio," she whispers, her voice cracking in disbelief. "They have my brother."

I nod, squeezing her leg but I'm already making calculations, forming plans.

"Marco," I bark. "Redirect us to London. Now!"

Marco relays the command to the pilot, who immediately adjusts our course.

"We need to move quickly," I tell Francesca, already dialing Vladimir, my Volkov insider. "The video is clearly a day old. That leaves us limited time."

The phone rings several times before Vladimir answers, his voice uncharacteristically tense. "Mr. Ravelli."