Page 18

18

Alessio

The diary. Isadora’s fucking diary.

I grip the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turn white as I tear through the rain-slicked streets of Queens. Backup plans exist for a reason, but this one tastes like ash in my mouth. Twenty years of meticulous planning crumbling because of words written in a leather-bound book.

“They’re moving,” Vittorio’s voice crackles through my burner phone. “Four of Giancarlo’s men just left the estate. Two heading east, two west.”

“They’re hunting,” I say, taking a hard right that sends water spraying from beneath my tires. “Set up the extraction point at location three. We’re compromised.”

“What about the girl?”

My jaw clenches at the dismissive way he refers to Isadora. “She goes with us.”

“Stefano—”

“That’s not up for discussion,” I snap, cutting him off. The clock on my dashboard reads 1:47 AM. The wedding is less than ten hours away. “Secure the route. I need to grab the evidence first.”

I end the call before he can argue further. Vittorio doesn’t understand—can’t understand—what Isadora has become to me. How, in the span of days, she’s shifted from a means to an end, to the end itself. The woman who saw past Alessio Gravano to the ghost of Stefano Calvino beneath. The only person who makes me want something beyond revenge.

Rain pounds against the windshield as I park three blocks from my childhood apartment. The neighborhood looks different at night—more threatening, less nostalgic. I move through shadows with the trained precision of a predator, every sense attuned to potential danger.

The blue door looks exactly as it did when I came with Isadora which is what feels like forever ago. I unlock it with practiced ease, slipping inside the building without a sound. The scent of cabbage and disinfectant brings an unexpected pang of sentimentality that I forcefully shove aside. Sentiment gets you killed in this business.

Apartment 3C is undisturbed—the trap I set on the door is still intact. Inside, I move directly to the loose floorboard beneath Maria’s old rocking chair. The safe embedded in the concrete holds everything I need: offshore account numbers, blackmail material on three judges, and hard evidence linking Giancarlo to a dozen murders, including my mother’s.

My mother’s ring weighs heavy in my pocket as I transfer the documents to my waterproof case. The last item I retrieve is a 9mm Glock—not my preferred Beretta, but an untraceable backup for emergencies.

And this definitely qualifies as a fucking emergency.

My phone vibrates. Unknown number.

“Gravano,” I answer, tucking the case under my arm.

“Stefano.” Maria’s voice, thin with fear, sends ice through my veins. “Men came—asking about you.”

“Are you hurt?” I’m already moving, taking the stairs two at a time.

“No, but they know, figlio mio. They asked for Stefano Calvino.”

My blood freezes. “I’m coming to get you.”

“No!” Her voice strengthens with familiar stubbornness. “They’re watching the home. Go to her. The girl—she needs you more than I do.”

“Maria—”

“I’ve arranged my own protection. Father Antonelli—remember him? He’s moving me to the church shelter.” She pauses, and I hear all she doesn’t say. “Find your happiness, Stefano. It was never going to be in vengeance.”

The line goes dead, leaving me with a hollow ache in my chest. I exit the building through the back, senses hyper-alert as I circle to my car. The rain has intensified, providing cover but limiting visibility. A blessing and a curse.

As I slide behind the wheel, my instincts scream danger for half a second before the first bullet shatters my passenger window.

I throw the car into reverse, ducking low as two more shots ping off the hood. Three men in black tactical gear emerge from the shadows, weapons raised. Giancarlo’s specialists—his cleanup crew.

I slam the gas, skidding backward down the street before yanking the wheel hard. The car spins, tires screeching against wet asphalt, and then I’m speeding away, bullets peppering the trunk.

“Fuck!” I slam my palm against the steering wheel. They found me too quickly, which means one thing: the diary didn’t just expose my identity. It revealed my safe houses, my plans—everything Isadora knew.

Everything I trusted her with.

I call Vittorio again, maneuvering through side streets at dangerous speeds.

“They’re onto the apartment,” I tell him, checking the rearview mirror for tails. “Maria’s location is compromised, too. We need to move faster.”

“Already on it. But there’s something else—the De Angelis estate is locked down. Triple security at every entrance.”

My stomach knots. “Isadora?”

Vittorio’s hesitation tells me everything I need to know.

“She’s gone,” he confirms. “No one’s seen her since the rehearsal dinner. Antonio is on a rampage, threatening to break the alliance if Giancarlo doesn’t produce her.”

“He thinks Giancarlo has her,” I mutter, mind racing through scenarios. “But if neither family has her...”

“Luca,” Vittorio concludes.

My half-brother. The golden son raised in luxury while I fought for scraps. The man whose bride I’ve claimed in ways he can never know. The thought of him touching Isadora—hurting her—sends murderous rage coursing through my veins.

“I’m heading back to the estate,” I decide, changing course. “If Antonio is mobilizing against Giancarlo, I need to be there.”

“That’s suicide,” Vittorio argues. “Your cover’s blown. You show up now, you’re walking into a trap.”

“I don’t have a choice,” I growl, pressing harder on the accelerator. “Isadora’s diary is somewhere out there. If Antonio learns I’m Stefano Calvino—”

“Then you’re dead from both sides,” Vittorio finishes. “At least wait for backup. I can have six men at the rendezvous point in twenty minutes.”

I don’t respond, my focus narrowing to a singular purpose: finding Isadora. The rain hammers against the roof of the car in rhythm with my pulse as I take back roads toward the De Angelis estate. Images of Isadora flash through my mind—her emerald eyes darkening with desire, her defiant tilt of chin when challenging me, the soft vulnerability in her voice when she whispered my real name against my skin.

Mine. The possessiveness startles me with its intensity.

The estate comes into view, and Vittorio’s assessment was spot on. Armed guards patrol the perimeter, their numbers tripled since I left. I abandon the car half a mile away, approaching on foot through the dense wooded area that borders the property’s east side.

Twenty years of operating as a ghost has its advantages. I slip past two patrol units, scaling the stone wall at a point where the security cameras have a three-second blind spot. Once inside the grounds, I make my way to the servants’ entrance—a route I memorized my first day on the property.

The kitchen is deserted this time of night. I move silently through service corridors, avoiding the main hallways where guards will be stationed. My destination is Isadora’s room—the last place she was seen. If there are clues to her whereabouts, they’ll be there.

I’m halfway up the back staircase when I hear hushed voices approaching. Pressing myself into an alcove, I watch as two of Antonio’s men pass, their conversation drifting back to me.

“—called off the wedding. Calvino gone too far this time.”

“You think they really took her?”

“Who else? Luca disappeared right after she did. Convenient, isn’t it?”

They turn the corner, their voices fading, but the information burns in my brain. The wedding’s called off. Luca’s missing too. This isn’t just about my exposed identity anymore.

I reach Isadora’s room without further encounters. The door is ajar, evidence of a hasty search already conducted. Inside, the space feels violated—drawers emptied, closet ransacked, bedding torn apart. They were looking for something specific. More evidence, perhaps. Or just answers.

I systematically scan the room, checking all the hiding places a woman like Isadora would use for any clue about where she might be, hoping against hope that she left on her own. Nothing is in the false bottom of her jewelry box, nothing is taped behind the mirror, and nothing is beneath the loose floorboard I identified days ago.

But when I check behind the headboard, my fingers brush against paper. A note, folded and tucked into a crevice where the wood meets the wall. Exactly where I taught her to hide messages during our covert planning sessions.

My heart pounds as I unfold it. The handwriting isn’t hers.

I know who you are, brother. Come alone to the old Ricci warehouse if you want to see her alive.

—Luca

Brother.

The word hits me like a physical blow. He knows. Somehow, Luca knows I’m his half-brother. Knows I’m the son Giancarlo tried to erase from existence.

And he has Isadora. But he only knows the half of it.

The paper crumples in my fist as rage and fear war within me. Rage at Luca for touching what’s mine. Fear for what he might do to her—what he might already have done.

My phone vibrates again. Another unknown number. I answer with deadly calm.

“Where is she?”

“Hello to you too, brother.” Luca’s voice, smug and cold, sends murderous intent surging through me. “She’s quite a prize, isn’t she? Fiery. Stubborn. Tastes like expensive champagne and rebellion.”

“If you’ve touched her—” My voice drops to a register I barely recognize.

“What? Will you kill me? Come now, Stefano. Or do you prefer Alessio? We have so much to discuss, brother to brother.”

“Let her go,” I demand. “This is between us.”

“Is it? Because her diary suggests otherwise. Quite detailed, those entries. Especially about your... encounters.”

The implication makes my blood boil. “Tell me where. Now.”

“The warehouse. Midnight tomorrow. Come alone, or I’ll send her back to our father in pieces.”

“Tomorrow?” My grip tightens on the phone. “That’s too long.”

“I need time with my bride, brother. To... get acquainted properly.”

The threat in his words makes something snap inside me. When I speak again, my voice is pure ice.

“You won’t see me coming, Luca. But I promise you this—when I find you, you’ll beg for our father’s mercy before I’m done.”

His laughter cuts off as I end the call, already moving toward the door. I need to get out before the guard rotation changes, I need to regroup with Vittorio and I need to find that warehouse and turn it into Luca’s grave.

But as I slip back through the estate’s shadows, one truth burns brighter than vengeance, brighter than twenty years of planning, brighter than the identity I’ve built and the ghost I’ve become:

Isadora.

She is no longer just part of the plan. She is the plan. The only thing that matters now.

I will burn this whole fucking world to the ground to get her back. And God help anyone who stands in my way.

Including that bastard Luca. Especially him.