Page 69 of The Bonventi War

I want something to happen, but nothing comes.

Defeat, regret, and all the emotions I don't like feeling come flooding in. I look at the stupid coffee maker and feel like I'm going to cry.

Maybe I should head back to the basement for my phone, Gio might try to call.

I return to an empty room—my father is gone.

Of course, he is.

I reach into my bag for my phone, hoping for something, but there are no missed calls or texts. I toss it back into my bag, devastated. As I set it down, I see Gio's AirTag. I don't know why, but I take it out and slip it into my pocket. It's not much, but it's something from him, and that makes me feel a tiny bit better.

I sigh and get to work. A few hours pass, and just as I'm finishing up, a creak from upstairs breaks my train of thought.

I freeze, listening. The gallery is closed. No one should be here.

Another sound—footsteps, heavier than my father's.

My heart pounds against my ribs. I back away from the workstation, eyes darting around for something to use as a weapon.

I look up at Gio's camera.

"What the hell?" I say out loud. It's covered with a small piece of cloth. Who did that?

More footsteps. And then voices. Low, murmured. One of them—my father's.

"Dad?" I call out.

Silence. And then the sound of multiple feet on the stairs.

My father appears first, head down, shoulders slumped. Behind him, three men in dark suits descend the staircase. They're tall, broad-shouldered, with the hard eyes of predators.

Oh my god, he wouldn't have.

"Dad?" I repeat, backing away. "What's happening?"

"I'm sorry," he says, his voice breaking. "I'm sorry, Raven. It's the only way. The only way."

The men move forward, spreading out like hunters cornering prey.

"You're coming with us," one of them says in a thick Russian accent.

I shake my head, still backing away. "No. I'm not going anywhere."

The man smiles—cold, humorless. "Your father disagrees."

I look at my dad, still standing with his head bowed, refusing to look at me. "Dad? What have you done?"

"I had to," he whispers. "They were going to kill me. Kill us both. The forgeries wouldn't have worked. This way, at least you live."

"Live? As what? Their slave?" The words rip from my throat.

One of the men laugh. "Such drama. You Americans, always so theatrical."

He nods to his companions, who move toward me with casual confidence.

Shit. They're blocking my only way out. I grab a painting and throw it at them.

They dodge it, and a large hand catches me by the arm, yanking me toward him. I cry out as pain shoots through my shoulder.