He’s a good man. I’ve always thought so, even after everything we’ve gone through together. His name and his past demand he be ruthless, but where it counts, he has a good heart.
This is crazy.
I press my fingers into the dirt to—literally—ground myself. I don’t have time to debate this. Love or not, I have to get out.
I inch past the window, holding my breath as I pass under it, and keep moving toward the shadowed wall and the gate that means my freedom.
I flatten to the wall and edge toward the last corner. Ten more steps and it’s a straight line to the gate. Ten more and—
Shouts split the quiet behind me. Doors bang open. Lights explode across the lawn.
“The girl is gone!”
A bark from the open window. “Find her!”
Chapter Forty
Giovanni
I take the stairs fast, hand skimming the rail, the old wood thudding under my heels. I don’t bother with the last two steps—I cut them, drop to the foyer, already reaching for keys.
I know where she is. I know, and it’s the only thing keeping me vertical.
Luca steps out of the parlor to my left, phone still to his ear, palm half raised like he means to slow me. We speak over each other.
“Cristiano squealed,” he says. “It’s—"
“Adriano Russo,” I say.
“Not Leonardo?” Antonio asks, coming into the foyer after Luca.
“No, Adriano,” Luca says, voice flat, eyes on mine. “Gabe Russo’s father.”
Elena’s breath catches from the doorway behind him. “Gabe?” Her face drains of color, arms tightening around Alessandra as if instinct tells the body to shield the child first. “The one who—” She cuts herself off. Her eyes flick to Luca and then to me.
The one who attacked her only months ago under this roof, in the bedroom she shares with Luca.
The one she had to kill.
“The same one,” Luca says, already closing the distance to her. He curls an arm around her shoulders, hand at the back of her head, drawing her close enough that the baby’s soft hair presses against his jaw. “They aren’t coming near you again.”
I don’t have time for the rage that surges up at the thought of that night. I tuck it beside the rest and keep moving. “I know where he’s keeping Bianca,” I say, my body already moving out the door. “Right at his own damn house.”
“Wait.” Roberto’s voice comes from behind, steps quickly, coat unbuttoned, tie loose, sleeves neat because he can’tnotbe neat. “Think critically.”
“For what?” I snarl. “Permission? A committee vote?”
“A plan,” he says. “Two breaths. That’s all I’m asking.”
“Two breaths could be the difference.”
“It’s a trap,” he adds. “You know it is.”
“I don’t care if it is,” I say. “And I don’t care who you think Bianca is. I believe what I believe. I don’t think she’s there by choice. Trap or no trap, I’m not sitting around another second.”
Roberto plants himself at my side anyway, the way only a brother can—close enough to take a fist if I swing one. “Stop and think for a second.”
“Move,” I say.
