"Tell me you didn't agree." He dropped into the leather chair across from my desk, all six feet of muscle and Mediterranean scowl. We'd known each other since we were kids runningnumbers for our fathers, and he could read me better than anyone.
"Blood debt."
"Cazzo—fuck." He scrubbed a hand over his face, switching to Italian like he always did when emotions ran high. "It's a trap, Alessio. Has to be. Marco doesn't need you to find his daughter—he's got dozens of men who could grab her off the street. He wants you compromised."
"I know." I finally drank the whiskey, letting it burn down my throat. "But if I refuse—"
"War. Yeah, I get it. Every family from here to Providence would question whether the Valestri honor their oaths." Domenico leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "So we do it clean. Find her, deliver her, and be done with it. No complications."
"Capisce?" I met his eyes.
"Capisce," he agreed.
We both knew it wouldn't be that simple. Nothing involving Marco DeLuca ever was.
"Get the tech team on it. I want her location by dawn."
It took them three hours. Valentina DeLuca wasn't as good at disappearing as she probably thought. She'd used a credit card at a gas station outside Worcester, then again at a liquor store near a cluster of cheap motels. My guys tracked her to the Starlite Inn, a two-story dump off Route 9, where the neon sign flickered like a dying heartbeat, and the parking lot was mostly empty.
I went alone. Bringing a crew would draw attention, and despite what Marco claimed, I didn't think Valentina was the real danger here. She was the bait.
The Aston Martin looked obscene in that parking lot, all sleek lines and money among the rust-bucket sedans and pickup trucks. I parked it anyway. Let people look. I'd be gone before anyone was stupid enough to touch it.
Room 17. Ground floor, corner unit. One light was visible through the gap in the curtains. I moved across the cracked asphalt, noting the exit routes, the sight lines, and the places someone could set up if this was an ambush.
Nothing. Just the hum of the vending machine and distant highway traffic.
I stopped outside her door. Listened. No voices, no movement I could detect. Then I knocked—three sharp raps that probably sounded like the police or worse.
"Valentina. Open the door."
Silence. Then the scrape of furniture being moved, something heavy dragging across cheap carpet.
"Your father sent me. I'm here to take you home."
"Fuck you!" Her response was muffled but clear, and there was none of the delicate society princess in it. This was raw and scared and angry. "Tell him I'm not going back. Tell him I heard everything!"
Interesting. I filed that away.
"I'm coming in. Step away from the door."
I didn't wait for permission. One kick, and the lock gave—these places weren't built for security. The door swung open, and I got half a second to register the scene: Valentina DeLuca was backed against the far wall in ill-fitting thrift store clothes—jeans too big, a sweater that swallowed her frame. Mascara tracked down her face in black streaks, her hair wild around her shoulders. Nothing like the polished society princess I'd seen at charity galas. This was desperation in human form.
A gun shook in her hands, pointed directly at my chest.
I saw her finger tighten on the trigger. I saw the fear and determination war in those too-green eyes. Saw the exact moment she made the choice.
The gunshot was deafening in the small room.
The bullet punched through the doorframe six inches from my head, sending splinters flying. My body had already moved—muscle memory and training taking over. I closed the distance between us in three strides as she tried to aim again, hands trembling so badly she'd probably shoot herself.
I caught her wrists, twisted just enough to make her fingers spasm open. The gun clattered to the stained carpet. She fought me with everything she had—nails, teeth, knees—and I had to give her credit. The Valentina I remembered from gallery openings wouldn't have fought at all.
"Stop." I pinned her wrists above her head against the wall, using my weight to cage her. She was small against me, five-six in bare feet, and I could feel her heart hammering through the thin fabric of her sweater. "I'm not going to hurt you."
"Liar!" She spat the word at me, and this close I could smell her—fear, champagne gone stale, and something floral underneath, perfume from another life. "You're going to kill me. That's what he wants. That's what I heard them planning!"
Everything stopped. The ambient noise of the highway, the buzz of the flickering light fixture—even my own breathing.
