Page 57 of Made for Vengeance (Dark Dynasties #3)

RAFE

T he moment Marco's call came through, something inside me broke.

I'd been reviewing property acquisitions in my office when my phone lit up with his name. One glance at the time told me it was too early—they shouldn't have reached the cabin yet. My hand was steady when I answered, my voice controlled as always.

"Report."

Then the words that shattered everything: "They took her. O'Sullivan's men. Professional job. Three vehicles, coordinated attack. I couldn't stop them."

For three heartbeats, I said nothing. The silence stretched between us, heavy with implications, with failure, with the sudden, yawning void where certainty had been moments before.

"Are you injured?" I asked finally, my voice unnaturally calm even to my own ears.

"Superficial. They held me at gunpoint. Made it clear what would happen to her if I tried anything."

"Where are you now?"

"Side of the highway. Police are coming. Our cleanup crew is already en route."

"Get back here. Immediately."

I ended the call and set the phone down with deliberate care. Then, with the same measured precision, I swept everything from my desk—papers, laptop, crystal decanter, family photographs—sending it all crashing to the floor in a cacophony of breaking glass and splintering wood.

The sound brought guards running, guns drawn. They found me standing motionless amid the destruction, my expression blank, my eyes focused on something they couldn't see.

"Sir?" one ventured, holstering his weapon. "Is everything?—"

"Get out." The words left my mouth softly, almost gently, but carried such menace that both men backed away immediately.

"And send Dante to me," I added as they reached the door. "Now."

Alone again, I moved to the window, staring out at the grounds that suddenly seemed empty, purposeless, devoid of the one thing that had given them meaning.

She was gone. Taken. In the hands of Patrick O'Sullivan—the man who had abandoned her, who had declared her expendable, who had treated his own daughter as nothing more than a business complication to be managed.

The man who would now use her for whatever new purpose he had conceived.

The thought sent a wave of rage through me so intense it momentarily blurred my vision. My hands clenched at my sides, knuckles white, the control I'd maintained my entire life suddenly gossamer-thin, ready to tear at the slightest provocation.

When Dante arrived twenty minutes later, he found me still at the window, unnaturally still, like a predator poised to strike.

"What happened?" he asked, closing the door behind him, taking in the destruction with a raised eyebrow.

"O'Sullivan took her." Three words, delivered with such cold fury that Dante actually took a step back. "His men intercepted Marco on the way to the cabin. Professional job. Coordinated. Planned."

Dante processed this, his expression shifting from surprise to calculation. "Interesting timing. Just as you were letting her go."

I turned, my eyes meeting my brother's with an intensity that would have made a lesser man flinch.

"You think this is a coincidence? That Patrick suddenly decided his daughter was worth retrieving after months of indifference?

After explicitly telling our representatives he had 'moved on from that particular complication'? "

"No," Dante conceded, moving further into the room, careful to maintain distance from my coiled tension. "Not a coincidence. A move in a larger game. The question is what game? What does Patrick gain by taking her back now?"

"I don't care." My voice was flat, final. "I don't care what game he's playing, what he hopes to gain, what strategy he's employing. I'm getting her back."

Dante sighed, running a hand through his hair—a rare gesture of frustration from the usually composed head of the Conti family.

"Rafe, think. This is clearly a provocation.

Patrick wants a reaction. Wants us to make a move that justifies whatever he's planning next.

We need to be strategic, to consider all angles, to?—"

"I don't care," I repeated, each word like a shard of ice. "I'm getting her back. With or without your approval. With or without Conti resources. With or without regard for the consequences to our business interests."

The declaration hung between us, unprecedented in our relationship. Never had I—the strategist, the rational one, the brother who always put family interests first—spoken of acting against Dante's wishes, against the collective good of the Contis.

"You would risk everything," Dante said slowly, "for this girl? This O'Sullivan who's been nothing but a complication since the moment you decided you wanted her?"

"Yes." No hesitation. No qualification. Just absolute certainty.

Dante studied me, seeing something he'd never witnessed before—not just anger or determination, but a fundamental shift in priorities, in loyalties, in the very foundation of who I was.

"You love her," he said finally, the realization dawning with uncomfortable clarity. "Not just want her. Not just obsess over her. You actually love her."

I didn't answer, didn't need to. The truth was written in every line of my body, every flicker of emotion across my usually controlled features.

"Well, shit," Dante muttered, moving to what remained of the bar cart and pouring himself a drink from a surviving bottle. "That complicates things."

"No," I countered. "It simplifies them. I'm getting her back. That's the only thing that matters now."

Dante downed his drink in one swallow, then set the glass down with deliberate care.

"Alright. But we do this smart. We gather intelligence.

We identify weaknesses. We create a plan that minimizes risk to the family, to our interests, to the girl herself.

No rushing in half-cocked on a suicide mission fueled by emotions you've never learned to handle. "

It was as close to support as Dante would offer, and I recognized it as such. I nodded once, a tight, controlled movement that belied the chaos still raging inside me.

"Twenty-four hours," I conceded. "Then I move, with or without a perfect plan."

Dante sighed again but nodded. "I'll put our best people on it. In the meantime, try not to destroy any more furniture. It's imported."

He left, closing the door softly behind him, leaving me alone with the wreckage of my office and the even greater devastation of my carefully constructed world.

By the third day, the entire Conti estate was walking on eggshells around me.

I hadn't slept—not more than brief snatches between strategy sessions, intelligence briefings, and my own relentless pacing.

I could feel the dark circles shadowing my eyes, my normally immaculate appearance giving way to stubbled cheeks and rumpled clothing.

I moved through the house like a ghost, or perhaps more accurately, like a predator in too small a cage—restless, dangerous, unpredictable.

Staff avoided me. Guards gave me wide berth. Even my captains—men who had faced down rival families, law enforcement, and death itself without flinching—found reasons to report to Dante instead, to avoid the razor's edge of my temper, the cold fury that radiated from me like a physical force.

In the war room—a secure space in the east wing where the family conducted its most sensitive business—maps and surveillance photos covered the walls.

The O'Sullivan estate. Patrick's office building.

His known properties throughout the city.

Security rotations. Access points. Weaknesses identified and marked in red.

I stood before them now, hands braced on the table, studying the information for the hundredth time, looking for something I'd missed, some approach I hadn't considered, some way to reach her that wouldn't result in all-out war between the families.

"The north perimeter is still our best option," I said to the men gathered around the table—Dante, Luca, and the three captains who had earned enough trust to be included in this most personal of operations.

"Security is lighter there. The terrain provides cover.

We can be in and out before they realize what's happening. "

"Except they're expecting us," Luca countered, pointing to the latest surveillance photos. "Look at the patrol patterns. They've doubled security on the north side. They know it's the most vulnerable approach, and they're waiting for us to try it."

I straightened, running a hand through my hair in a gesture of frustration that had become increasingly common in the past days. "Then we create a diversion. Hit another property. Draw their attention elsewhere."

"And risk open warfare with the O'Sullivans?" Dante asked, his voice carefully neutral. "That's not a decision to make lightly, brother. Not even for her."

"I don't care about warfare," I snapped, my control slipping again. "I don't care about business implications or territorial disputes or the delicate fucking balance of power between our families. I care about getting her out of there before Patrick can?—"

I stopped abruptly, the thought too terrible to voice. Before Patrick could what? Hurt her? Use her? Trade her to someone else as part of some new alliance, some new business arrangement that treated his daughter as nothing more than a commodity to be exchanged?

The possibilities had been haunting me for days, driving sleep away, feeding the rage that simmered just beneath my carefully maintained facade of control.

"We know," Dante said, his voice gentler than usual. "But rushing in without a solid plan doesn't help her. It just creates more complications, more danger, more variables we can't control."

I turned away, moving to the window that overlooked the estate grounds. In the distance, I could see the gardens where Grace had walked, the bench where she had sometimes sat reading, the paths we had traveled together during her limited freedom on the grounds.