“Missing?” she whispers.
I choose every word with surgical precision, forcing my voice into something even, calm, steady; when inside, everything is twisting tight.
“Enzo checked in on her yesterday,” I say. “She wasn’t at home when she should’ve been. She’s… missing.”
The word tastes cold on my tongue.
Her fingers tighten onto my shirt. “Santo, I need more then justmissing.What does that even mean?”
It means her apartment was torn apart.
It means there wasblood.
It means someone took her.
But that truth sits behind my teeth like a blade.
“Itmeans,” I say, pulling her closer, “she wasn’t where she was supposed to be. Enzo is handling it. Angelo already has a team out searching.”
She’s trembling, trying to keep her voice steady, but the fear slips through.
“Does Romeo know?”
I don’t even hesitate.
“No. He doesn’t need more on his plate.”
Her breath shakes.
That hits me like a punch to the sternum.
She’s scared.
I made her scared.
“Do you think it’s the Armenians?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper.
I can’t cushion this.
Not this part.
Not when lies could cost her safety.
“Maybe,” I admit softly. “But it could be rivals from Chicago. We don’t know yet.”
Her eyes widen. Fear flaring bright. I feel it like fire against my ribs.
“What if they—”
“Dea.”
I cut her off immediately, cupping her face with both hands before the thought can finish its shape.
“No one willevertouch you again,” I say, voice low, steady, absolute. “Not while I’m alive. You’re with me.Always.”
Her breath comes out shaky, shoulders loosening.
She nods, small and trembling, but trusting—trusting me.
