"It's definitely a trap," I tell him. "Question is whether it's one I can walk out of."
I check my weapon one last time – Glock 19 in my shoulder holster, backup piece at my ankle, knife in my boot. Not that any of it will matter if Roberto decides he wants me dead more than he wants his daughter back alive.
"Give me thirty minutes," I tell Tommy. "If I'm not out by then, call my father and tell him to prepare for war."
"Copy that."
The warehouse door is unlocked. Inside, the space has been cleared except for a single table in the center, two chairs facing each other like this is some kind of corporate negotiation instead of a potential execution.
Roberto Bonacci sits in the chair facing the door, flanked by two of his men. He's older than I expected, maybe early fifties, with gray threading through his dark hair and lines around his eyes that speak to decades in this business. But there's nothing soft about him. Everything from his posture to his expression screams danger.
"Mr. Lombardi." His voice carries the slight accent of a man who learned English as a second language but perfected it through necessity. "Thank you for coming."
"Mr. Bonacci." I take the chair across from him, close enough to see the rage burning behind his controlled expression. "I have something for you."
I pull out my phone, bringing up the video Viviana recorded. Roberto's eyes never leave my face as I set it on the table between us.
"Before you watch this," I say, "I need you to understand something. Your daughter is alive because I chose to keep her alive. She's safe because I chose to keep her safe. And she'll stay that way as long as we can keep our heads about this situation."
"You lecture me about my own daughter?"
"I'm telling you the facts. Someone tried to kill your family. Someone succeeded in killing your good men. Someone is still out there, still hunting, and until we find them, Viviana is safer with me than anywhere else. No one would suspect she’s with me."
Roberto's jaw tightens. "You expect me to believe you're protecting her out of the goodness of your heart?"
"I expect you to believe I'm protecting her because it serves my interests to do so."
"And what interests are those?"
"Staying alive. Keeping my family alive. Preventing a war that would bleed both our organizations dry while our real enemies watch from the sidelines."
Roberto studies my face for a long moment, then reaches for the phone. I watch his expression change as Viviana's image fills the screen, watch the way his whole body seems to exhale when he hears her speak.
The video plays in silence except for his daughter's words, but I can see every emotion that crosses his face. Relief that she's alive. Anger that she's with me. Love for his child. Rage at the situation.
When it ends, he sets the phone down carefully. "She looks well," he says finally.
"She is well."
"You haven't hurt her."
"No."
"You haven't..." He searches for the right words. "You haven't dishonored her."
The question hangs in the air between us, loaded with implications and threats. Because what he's really asking is whether I've touched his precious daughter, whether I've crossed lines that would make this personal instead of just business.
"Your daughter's safety and well-being are my priority," I say, which isn't exactly an answer but isn't exactly a lie either.
"That's not what I asked."
"It's the answer you're getting."
We stare at each other across the table, two men who understand exactly what's being discussed without saying the words. Roberto knows his daughter is beautiful, knows she's probably the most tempting thing I've encountered in years.He also knows that if I've touched her, this meeting ends with one of us dead.
"She defended you," he says finally. "In the video. She called you her protector."
"She's not wrong."
