“Thought you’d want to see this, came in right after your… guest.” His voice doesn’t hide the disdain.

I flip it open.

Photos. Names. Documents. Surveillance logs.

The man from the bar.

Real name: Tommaso Fiorenti .

Front: corporate investor.

Reality: associate of the Ragusa faction , one of the smaller families sniffing around the Russo-Mancini rift.

I drag a finger across the image. In one of the photos, he’s looking not at Jordyn, but at the exit behind her. Timing her movements.

“He was testing our security,” I say flatly.

Dante nods. “Seeing how close he could get. Seeing if she’s reachable.”

I flip to the next page. Room number. Schedule. Known associates.

“When does he check out?”

“Tomorrow. But he won’t make it to the lobby,” Dante says. “Unless you want him to.”

I close the file. “Kill him,” I order calmly. “But not in the hotel. Too messy, too close to her.”

“Want it loud or quiet?”

I meet his eyes. “I want it remembered.”

Dante’s mouth twists in something close to a grin. “Consider it done.”

He starts to turn, but I stop him. “Double the men on Jordyn. Rotate in the ones she hasn’t seen yet.”

“You worried she’ll notice?”

“I’m counting on her not to.” He nods again, but this time his gaze lingers.

“And what about the old man?” he asks. “You think Luciano’s just going to sit back and let you keep her?” I let the silence stretch.

“No,” I say finally. “But I’m not just keeping her.”

I meet Dante’s stare. “I’m building a world where no one can touch her.”

My office is dim and quiet, unsettlingly quiet.

There’s a gnawing in my gut that I can’t seem to shake. It’s the kind of dread that promises trouble and keeps you in a chokehold.

I’m still staring at the frozen surveillance image of that bastard from the bar when the door slams open. Dante storms in, no knock, no words.

Just a black-and-white photo clenched in his hand and a look on his face I don’t like. “What is it?” I ask, already standing.

He tosses the image onto the table. It skids toward me. The moment I see it, my blood runs cold.

It’s Jordyn.

But she’s not alone.

She’s being led out of a service corridor by a man in a black suit. Her body is too relaxed, head tilted, eyes unfocused. She’s not resisting, she’s not walking on her own, and she’s holding a white rose.

My phone vibrates once in my jacket.

I pull it out.

Unknown number.

One message.

“She’s beautiful when she’s weak.”

My vision whites out for half a second, then it all narrows.

My pulse. My breath. My world.

Dante’s already moving. “We lost eyes on her three minutes ago. She was disoriented. Looked drugged. One of the guys on her detail hasn’t checked in.”

I grab my keys and my jacket.

“Get the location of that phone. I want every vehicle that left that hotel stopped at the next ten junctions. Pull traffic cams. Drones. I don’t care if you have to burn the city down, FIND HER!”

Dante nods, already dialling. “Where are you going?”

I swing open the door, teeth clenched so tight from rage they ache.

“To get her back.”

Dante follows as I take the stairs two at a time, rage a living thing beneath my skin. My feet hit the pavement, and I head straight for the Ducati. The second I mount it, my phone buzzes again, another message from the same number.

No words this time.

Just a photo.

Jordyn.

She’s slumped in the back seat of a car. Eyes half-closed. That same white rose resting on her lap like a signature.

I don’t breathe.

I don’t blink.

I gun the throttle and tear into the street, the roar of the engine splitting the silence wide open.

The city blurs, lights stretch. Horns wail. I don’t hear them.

All I hear is her voice in my memory, soft, breathy, laughing against my chest this morning like the world wasn’t already sharpening its teeth.

She told me to be careful. I should’ve made her stay.

I lean into the Ducati, slicing through traffic like a blade. The GPS tracker on her phone went dark four minutes ago. That’s too fucking long.

The Ducati roars beneath me like it feels my rage, like it’s trying to outrun the sick twist in my gut telling me this isn’t just a warning.

It’s a declaration.

Whoever took her wanted me to feel this. Wanted me to bleed for it.

My phone buzzes again in my jacket pocket. I don’t stop. I hit the voice command.

“Answer.”

Dante’s voice cuts in, clipped. “We found the car. Black Mercedes. Plates were fake, but the traffic cam at Via Mare picked it up turning east. We’re tracking it now, two blocks from the port.”

The port. Of course. They’re trying to get her out before we can pin them down.

“Seal every exit road south of Palermo,” I bite out. “Send men to the docks. Intercept anyone who even fucking breathes her name.”

“We’re already on it,” Dante says. “You’re two minutes out.”

Two minutes.

Too long.

I take the next corner without slowing down. My shoulder clips the side mirror of a parked car, and I don’t stop. I fucking can’t.

I cut into the backstreets, tyres shrieking, rage flooding every muscle until all that exists is the road and her and the sound of the seconds ticking away.

Tick...Tock.

The city falls away behind me, concrete and glass give way to rusted fences, corrugated steel, the thick salt stink of the port bleeding through the wind.

Dante’s voice is back in my ear.

“They ditched the car outside Dock 12. Security feed shows one man walking her inside. Tall. Clean cut. Unknown.”

“Armed?”

“Not visibly. But he’s calm. Doesn’t even check the cameras. Like he wants us to watch.”

A trap.

Good.

Let him try.

My wheels screech onto gravel, the Ducati spitting dust as I kill the engine. I’m off the bike before it’s done settling, boots hitting ground like gunfire.

Dock 12 yawns open ahead, an old freight hangar hollowed out by time and secrets. One floodlight flickers weakly above the loading bay, casting the entrance in shifting shadow.

“I’m right behind you.” I hear Dante utter in my ear.

I don’t wait.

I move.

Silent. Focused. My blade is already in my hand, pressed close to my thigh, hidden by the jacket. My gun stays holstered, for now.

I take the back route. Scale a rusted fence. Cut through pallets stacked high with crates labelled in Cyrillic. Every shadow is a threat. Every breath is a countdown.

I reach the side entrance and stop. A figure stands just inside the warehouse, silhouetted, fucking waiting.

And on the floor behind him, a flash of movement.

Slumped legs. Pale arms. A black heel.

Jordyn.

My pulse spikes so hard I nearly stagger.

She’s on her knees, wrists bound. Head bowed like she’s trying to stay upright.

She’s alive...but barely.

The man doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, he just steps aside.

Inviting me in.

I tighten my grip on the blade. My breath comes sharp, deliberate, because I know what this is. This is not a kidnapping, it’s not a ransom.

This is a message. From whom I don’t know, but I’m about to return it in blood.

The air inside the hangar is thick with rust and sea rot. Dim light slices through the slats in the ceiling, dust curling in every beam like smoke.

My boots echo on the concrete as I step inside.

One slow step. Then another.

He doesn’t flinch.

Neither do I.

The man is tall. Clean-cut. Tailored black suit like it was ironed for this moment. His hands are clasped in front of him, calm. As if, he’s not standing between me and the only thing in this world I give a fuck about.

Behind him, Jordyn stirs. Barely. Her head tilts. Her wrists are tied, but not tight. Just enough to humiliate. To provoke. My vision narrows.

“You have five seconds to step away from her,” I say, voice like gravel dragged across concrete.

He smiles.

Not wide. Just enough.

The kind of smile that comes with secrets and arrogance and the quiet confidence of a man who thinks he’s made his point.

“Is that really how we greet each other now, Russo?” he says, accent clean, not Sicilian. Roman, maybe. Or Naples. One of the old cities where men still think violence makes them gods.

“You’re not family,” I reply. “So, you don’t get a greeting. You get a grave.”

He laughs once, softly. “I didn’t touch her. You’ll find not a scratch on her.”

“You think that means you get to breathe?”

He finally moves, steps to the side. A full view now, Jordyn, pale, swaying where she kneels. Her head lifts just slightly, her eyes lock onto mine.

Something breaks inside me. Quiet but sharp.

He gestures at her like she’s a prop. “I wanted you to feel what it’s like,” he says. “The helplessness. The burn. The way time slows when someone you love is just… out of reach.”

I don’t blink. I just raise the blade in my hand.

“You just made the biggest mistake of your fucking life.” He opens his mouth to respond, and I lunge.

I don’t go for the throat, not yet.

I slam the man back against a metal pillar, blade to his jugular, my forearm crushing his windpipe just enough to blur the edges of his vision. The clang of impact echoes through the hangar. Jordyn flinches.

His grin cracks. Blood beads under the knife.

“You have five seconds,” I growl, my voice a death sentence, “to tell me who you are and who the fuck sent you.”

He gasps, but it’s not fear that flashes in his eyes, it’s pride. “You already know who sent me,” he chokes. “You’ve been receiving the messages, haven’t you?”

I press my molars together while he chuckles through broken breath. “Tick, tock, Russo. This was just the beginning.”

I drive the blade deeper, just enough to make him wince. “That wasn’t an answer.”

“Moretti,” he rasps. “But you already knew that, too.”

Everything goes still inside me. The name hangs there, Moretti , like rot in the air. Nicolai’s reach just crossed a line I didn’t think even he would dare.

“Why Jordyn?” I ask coldly. “Why not come for me?”

His grin is blood-stained now. “Because pain means more when it wears a face you’d die for.” I slit his throat, clean and swift.

He crumples at my feet with a soft thud, like he was never anything more than a shadow.