Page 71 of The Bonventi War

A black car idles at the curb, its trunk already open like a waiting coffin.

"No!" I thrash wildly, finding a last reserve of strength. "Help! Somebody help me!"

My screams go unanswered, bouncing off the empty street, swallowed by the night.

"Bag this ????," someone says.

My vision goes dark as a thick cloth is shoved over my head and my wrists burn as rope is wrapped around them.

Two men lift me off the ground, carrying me toward the vehicle while I kick and squirm blindly.

Then they hoist me higher, swinging me toward the open trunk. They toss me in like a bag of garbage. My head strikes something hard, and my vision blurs.

"Let me go!" I sob, knowing it's futile but unable to stop.

The trunk lid squeaks as it begins to close, and in that final sliver of time, desperation claws at me. A name bursts from my lips—not my father's, not a stranger's, but the only name that matters.

"GIO!"

The cry comes from somewhere deeper than fear, somewhere raw and honest that I've been denying. It's not just a call for help; it's a recognition, an admission that's been building since the moment he entered my gallery.

He's my savior, and I pray to God he'll come and save me.

Please, Gio. Come for me.

30

GIO

I'm jerked from sleep by the relentless buzz against my nightstand. My hand reaches out, grabbing my phone before I'm fully conscious. Security alerts. Multiple notifications are flooding in from the gallery system.

What the hell?

I swipe through to the feed and freeze. My blood turns to ice in my veins as I watch men—Russians by the look of them—dragging Raven across the floor of her gallery. Her hair is twisted in one of their fists, her face bloodied.

"FUCK!" The roar tears from my chest as I launch myself from the bed.

I pull on the closest shirt I can snatch and grab my pants, shoving my legs through, jerking them up with one hand while I take my gun from the nightstand drawer with the other, checking the chamber to make sure it's fully loaded.

I jam my feet into my boots and run as fast as I can downstairs and out to my driveway. I can’t take the Rolls-Royce, I need to move fast.

I look around at my other cars.

Perfect, I’ll take that one.

I jump into my Maserati, pressing the start button with so much force I'm surprised it doesn't break. The engine roars to life, and I floor it, peeling away from the curb with a screech that probably wakes half the block.

I don't give a fuck. All I can see is Raven's bloodied face and those Russian animals dragging her by her hair.

As I drive, my hand shakes with rage as I pull up the tracking app on my phone. Among the dots representing my men stationed throughout the city, the one I care about the most right now is moving away from the gallery—fast.

"Raven," I breathe, a surge of something dangerously close to relief flooding through me. The AirTag is moving. She has it with her.

My fingers tighten around the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white. I run the first red light without even slowing down, horns blaring around me as I slice through the intersection. The second light I blow through just as easily, my mind focused on the fastest route to intercept based on the moving dot on my screen.

Thank fucking God she kept the tag with her. Smart girl.

My girl.