Page 25 of Made for Vengeance (Dark Dynasties #3)

GRACE

T he door opened without warning.

I looked up from the book I'd been pretending to read, surprised to see Rafe standing in the doorway. He was dressed differently today—charcoal suit, crisp white shirt, silver tie. Business attire. Power attire.

"Get dressed," he said, his tone clipped and professional. "Something appropriate for a meeting. There are clothes in the closet."

I set the book aside, eyeing him warily. "A meeting? With whom?"

"You're not attending. You're observing." He checked his watch—platinum, understated, expensive. "You have fifteen minutes. I'll wait outside."

Before I could ask more questions, he stepped back into the hallway, closing the door behind him. I heard no locks engage.

Curious.

After nearly two weeks of captivity, this was the first time he'd suggested I leave the room. The first change in our established routine of meals, one-sided conversations, late night hate fucks, and psychological warfare.

I moved to the closet, which I'd explored thoroughly during my first days here. It was filled with women's clothing in exactly my size—everything from casual wear to formal dresses, all with designer labels, all in colors and styles I might have chosen myself.

The attention to detail was both impressive and disturbing.

I selected a simple navy dress with a high neckline and knee-length hem. Professional without being flashy. The kind of thing I would have worn to class or a casual work function. I paired it with low heels and minimal jewelry from the selection provided.

Looking in the mirror, I barely recognized myself. Two weeks of captivity had left me thinner, paler, with shadows under my eyes that no amount of sleep seemed to erase. But the clothes fit perfectly, creating the illusion of normalcy, of control.

I ran a brush through my hair, leaving it loose around my shoulders, and applied the bare minimum of makeup—enough to look put together but not enough to suggest I was trying to impress anyone.

Exactly fifteen minutes after he'd left, Rafe knocked once and opened the door.

His eyes traveled over me, taking in the outfit with a nod of approval. "Good choice."

"What's this about?" I asked, crossing my arms. "Why am I suddenly allowed out of my cage?"

"It's not a cage, Grace." He sighed, as if my continued resistance was merely tiresome rather than justified. "And you're allowed out because I want you to see something. To understand something."

"Understand what?"

"The reality of your situation." He held out his hand. "Shall we?"

I ignored his outstretched hand, stepping past him into the hallway.

It was the first time I'd seen it without the haze of adrenaline and desperation that had accompanied my escape attempt.

The corridor was long and elegantly appointed, with hardwood floors, cream walls, and tasteful artwork at regular intervals.

"This way," Rafe said, placing a hand lightly on the small of my back.

I stiffened but didn't pull away. Better to conserve my energy, to observe, to gather information that might help me later.

We walked in silence, passing several closed doors before reaching a grand staircase—the same one I'd tried to flee down before. This time, I descended with dignity rather than desperation, taking in my surroundings with a calculated calm.

The Conti estate was even more impressive in daylight. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, illuminating marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and furniture that looked like it belonged in a museum. Old money. Real money. The kind of wealth that whispered rather than shouted.

At the bottom of the stairs, Rafe guided me not toward the front door—which I noted was now guarded by two men in suits—but down a hallway to the left, deeper into the house.

"Where are we going?" I asked, keeping my voice neutral.

"My office," he replied. "There's a meeting about to start in the adjacent room. I want you to listen."

"Why?"

He glanced at me, his dark eyes unreadable. "Because some truths are better heard than told."

Cryptic bastard.

We reached a door at the end of the hallway, heavy oak with intricate carvings.

Rafe opened it, revealing a spacious office that matched the grandeur of the rest of the house.

Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined one wall, filled with leather-bound volumes.

A massive desk dominated the center of the room, its surface neat and organized.

Large windows overlooked manicured gardens and, in the distance, what looked like a small lake.

"Wait here," Rafe said, moving to a side door I hadn't noticed initially. "The meeting will start in a few minutes. You can listen through this door, but do not open it. Do not make a sound. Understand?"

I nodded, curiosity overriding defiance for the moment.

"Good." He checked his watch again. "I'll return when it's over."

He left through the main door, closing it firmly behind him. I heard the lock engage—not a prisoner in my room, but still a prisoner.

I explored the office, looking for anything that might help me understand my situation better—or, ideally, escape it. The desk drawers were locked. The computer required a password. The phone line was dead.

Rafe Conti was nothing if not thorough.

I moved to the windows, assessing them as potential exits. They were large but, like the ones in my room, sealed shut and reinforced. The view they offered was tantalizing—freedom just beyond the glass, visible but untouchable.

The sound of voices drew my attention to the side door Rafe had indicated. I moved closer, pressing my ear against the wood.

"—appreciate you meeting on such short notice," a male voice was saying. Not Rafe's, but similar in tone—confident, controlled, with that same hint of an accent I couldn't quite place.

"Let's skip the pleasantries," another voice replied—older, gruffer, with a distinct Boston Irish lilt that made my blood freeze in my veins. "We both know why we're here."

My father.

Patrick O'Sullivan was in the next room.

My heart rate doubled, adrenaline flooding my system. My father was here. In the Conti estate. Presumably to negotiate my release. To demand my return.

To save me.

I pressed closer to the door, straining to hear every word.

"The situation with the docks has become untenable," my father continued. "Your people are interfering with shipments that have moved through our territory for decades."

"Your territory?" A third voice—younger, sharper. "Last I checked, the port was neutral ground. Has been since the agreement of '97."

"An agreement your family has conveniently forgotten," my father snapped. "Three of our containers were seized last month. Five of my men arrested. That's not neutral ground, that's a declaration of war."

"A misunderstanding," the first voice said smoothly. "One we're prepared to rectify, with appropriate compensation."

"Compensation?" My father laughed, a harsh sound devoid of humor. "You think money fixes this?"

"Not money," the voice replied. "Territory. Specifically, Graven Hill and the surrounding areas. Full control, no questions asked, no interference from our side."

There was a pause, the silence heavy with implication. Graven Hill was a notorious neighborhood on the edge of the city—high crime, high poverty, but strategically valuable for distribution routes.

"And in exchange?" my father asked, his voice cautious now.

"In exchange, we forget about the warehouse your people bombed. We forget about Giovanni Abate, who your son Sean turned against us. We forget about the judge you bought to block our casino license."

Another pause, longer this time.

"That's quite a list of grievances," my father said finally. "And quite a generous offer to resolve them. What's the catch, Dante?"

Dante. Dante Conti. The head of the family. Not Rafe, but someone above him.

"No catch," Dante replied. "Just a clean slate. A fresh start between our families."

"And what about my daughter?"

My breath caught. Finally. The real reason for this meeting. My father was here to negotiate my release, to bring me home, to?—

"What about her?" Dante asked, sounding genuinely confused.

"Grace," my father clarified, an edge of impatience in his voice. "My daughter. Harvard Law. Blonde. The one your brother has taken a... special interest in."

The way he said "special interest" made my skin crawl—clinical, detached, as if discussing a business transaction rather than a kidnapping.

"Ah," Dante said, understanding dawning in his voice. "That."

"Yes, that," my father replied dryly. "I assume her return is part of this 'fresh start' you're proposing?"

There was a pause, then the sound of a chair scraping against the floor, footsteps moving across the room.

"Patrick," Dante said, his voice lower now, more intimate.

"Let's be frank with each other. Your daughter has been missing for two weeks.

In that time, you haven't filed a police report.

Haven't contacted the FBI. Haven't even hired a private investigator.

If my sources are correct, you told your household staff she's on a study retreat in Vermont. "

My stomach dropped, a cold weight settling in my chest.

"My family business is my business," my father said stiffly. "How I handle my daughter's... situation... is my concern."

"Of course," Dante agreed smoothly. "And how my brother handles his personal affairs is his concern. So perhaps we can agree that Grace's current circumstances need not factor into our professional arrangement."

I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. The words echoed in my head, each one a hammer blow against everything I'd believed.

My father hadn't been looking for me. Hadn't been trying to save me. Hadn't even acknowledged I was missing.

"She's still my daughter," my father said, but the words sounded hollow, perfunctory. "I have certain... expectations regarding her treatment."