Page 44 of Forgive Me, Father (Don #1)

THIRTY-SIX

THE WHITE RABBIT

My father had done it again. Nico had to drive me somewhere safe—somewhere I could scream and let it all out.

I needed to unleash it, to break something, to feel like I had control again. I could’ve taken down a few guys before the weasel crawled out, begging my father for mercy.

He swore it couldn’t have been Kai that almost killed Fiona. He knew his son. He begged for twenty-four hours.

My father gave it to him.

I still said kill all of them, before any other innocent blood was going to spill.

I remembered that today was my bride’s first painting class. She’d been so excited to start something new. I hoped she was enjoying it.

A couple of hours later, we sat down to dinner, but I felt too sick to eat. My bride still hadn’t texted me back, and the worry gnawed at me. I wasn’t going to lie, I was getting anxious. I called her number, but it went straight to voicemail.

Great. Maybe her phone died. I needed to have that talk with her about keeping it charged.

“Boss,” Nico’s voice came from behind me, his tone urgent. “There’s an emergency.”

I frowned, pushing my chair back. “Excuse me,” I muttered to my father.

He looked up, brow furrowed. “Alfonso?”

“There’s an emergency, Dad. Give me a few.”

He nodded, unaffected, and went back to his meal. I walked out of the restaurant, Nico handing me a phone.

“My mom,” he said.

I took the phone, my stomach tightening. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Camilla,” his mom’s voice trembled on the other end. “She hasn’t come back, Alfonso. I’m sorry to bother you, I know you’re busy, but it’s past six. I’ve tried calling her…”

“Yeah, I know,” I interrupted, already feeling the panic rise. “Her phone’s going to voicemail. I’ll be back soon. Stay calm, and call me if she shows up.”

“I will.”

The call dropped, the line going dead in my ear.

“Get the SUV ready and call the pilot. We leave now.”

Nico didn’t hesitate. He nodded sharply and rushed back into the restaurant, phone already pressed to his ear as he moved quickly to make the arrangements.

My hand was either going to burn tonight, teaching my wife a lesson in tardiness, or, I refused to think about the ‘or.’

I stepped back into our private section of the restaurant and made my way to my father’s table.

“Camilla’s missing. I have to leave,” I said, my voice low but firm.

My father looked up, eyes narrowing. “Alfonso…”

“Don’t. That is the last thing I want to think about. But here is a warning, if he is behind this, I will burn his entire family to a crisp.” I left and rushed to the SUV.

I texted Camilla again.

You better answer your phone in the next half hour.

I hit send and hoped, prayed, that she was just out somewhere, drunk, high on life, and completely safe. Any other possibility clawed at the edge of my mind, and if it proved true, the part of me I kept caged, the beast, would be unleashed without mercy.

* * *

She still didn’t pick up half an hour later. No text. Nothing. Nico’s mom confirmed Camilla hadn’t come home, and the worry spread through me like a virus—slow, cold, and nauseating.

My father kept texting, message after message, wanting updates, asking if she’d been found. I ignored him. I couldn’t deal with his questions, not now.

The plane touched down around eight, and Nico drove us straight home.

His mother was waiting at the kitchen table, pale and trembling. The moment she saw Nico, she broke down in tears. He crossed the room without a word and wrapped his arms around her.

“She’s still not back?” I asked, voice tight.

“No, Alfonso,” Nico’s mom said, eyes red.

I pulled out my phone and immediately called the security company. “Track Camilla’s car. I need its location now.”

“We’ve got it,” the operator replied. “It’s parked in a lot across from St. Mark’s Square.”

“Send me the PIN.”

The moment it came through, I ended the call and headed straight for the Lambo. Nico followed without a word. The drive to St. Mark’s Square didn’t take long. The pin led us to one of the smaller cars Camilla sometimes drove.

She wasn’t in it. No sign of her. No bag, no jacket—nothing.

I felt a knot tighten in my gut as I dialed the number I’d used to book her art class. A man answered.

“Was Camilla there today?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. “She arrived a little late, but she was in great spirits. Very excited. Honestly, she has a real gift; her work today was one of the standouts.”

“Do you know what time she left?”

“We went for coffee as she wanted to ask me a few things.”

I didn’t like the sound of that.

“Around five, I’d say,” he added casually.

“Which café?” I asked, the unease rising fast in my chest.

He gave me the name, and I drove straight there. It was still open, crowded with tourists and locals. I pushed through and flagged down the first barista I saw.

I explained the situation—my wife, missing—but he just blinked at me, clueless. Didn’t remember her.

She’s stunning. Impossible to miss. And he doesn’t remember her?

Eventually, he brought out the owner. No security cameras. Of course.

“I think we need Paulo on this,” Nico said beside me, already tapping away on his phone.

“Call him. I want footage—street, traffic, anything. And track her goddamn phone. Now.”