And Bianca called me three times before going silent.
I open the tracker app on my phone. The one connected to the ring I gave her. The engagement ring with the GPS chip embedded in the setting—so small she'd never notice it, so powerful it can track her anywhere in the city.
The app loads.
A red dot pulses on the map.
Not at St. Catherine's Medical Center.
Not at my house.
Not anywhere near where she should be.
The pin drops near Teterboro Airport. Private aviation. The kind of place you go when you want to leave the country without going through TSA checkpoints and customs lines.
My blood turns to ice.
They're taking her. Whoever has her—Caterina, Adrian, someone else—they're putting her on a plane.
I'm moving before the thought fully forms. Before I can second-guess or strategize or think about anything except getting to her.
"Marco!" I shout into the house. "Get Enzo and Rafe. Tell them to meet me at Teterboro Airport. Private hangars on the south side. Armed. Now."
I'm in my car before Marco can respond. Engine roaring to life.
The tracker shows her position hasn't moved in twelve minutes. Still near the airport. Still close enough to reach if I move fast enough.
I pull up Matteo's contact. He answers immediately.
"I need air support. Teterboro Airport. They have Bianca."
"Who?"
"Adrian. Caterina. Maybe both. I don't know yet. I need every man you can spare and I need them there in twenty minutes."
"Dante—"
"She's at the airport, Matteo. They're putting her on a plane. If she leaves this city, I'll never find her again."
Silence. Then: "I'm sending every soldier I trust. But Dante—the article?—"
"I know about the article. I don't care."
"You should care. The other families?—"
"Can go to hell." I'm already on the highway. Doing ninety. "Send the men or don't. But I'm going in either way."
He curses. "Twenty minutes. Don't do anything stupid before we get there."
I hang up.
The tracker dot pulses. Still stationary. Still at the airport.
I press the accelerator harder. A hundred miles per hour. Then one-ten.
Bianca tried to call me. Three times. She was scared. Desperate. And I wasn't there because I was busy breaking Carlo Bellandi's fingers to send a message.
The irony isn't lost on me.
