She's trembling, her fingers digging into the fabric of my shirt. "They tried to grab me when I stepped outside. They had a car waiting. If your men hadn't been there?—"
"Don't." I pull back just enough to cup her face in my hands. "Don't think about what didn't happen. You're safe. That's all that matters."
Angelo approaches, face grim. "Boss, we need to move. More police on the way—not our people."
I nod, scoop Sharon up, and carry her to the waiting car. She doesn't protest this time, just burrows closer, face pressed against my neck. I can feel her tears, hot against my skin.
In the car, I keep her on my lap, one arm around her, the other hand already dialing. Marchetti is about to learn exactly who the fuck he's dealing with.
"The Edgewater property," I tell my attorney, voice clipped. "Move on it now. And cancel the line of credit to Stellar Gaming. Effective immediately."
Sharon lifts her head. "What's happening?"
"Business," I say simply, then press a kiss to her forehead. "Nothing for you to worry about."
But she's smarter than that. Her eyes search mine. "This is because of me, isn't it? Because of what just happened."
I consider lying, then discard the thought. She deserves better. "The Marchetti family is unhappy about our marriage. They're lashing out."
"The family of the woman you were supposed to marry?"
"Yes."
"So they tried to kidnap me? To what—force an annulment?"
"Something like that." No need to tell her the rest—that kidnapping often ends with shallow graves in the desert. No need to paint those pictures in her mind.
Back at the penthouse, I station extra security, then lead Sharon to our bedroom. She's still shaking slightly, adrenaline crash setting in. I run her a bath, add the lavender oil she likes, help her undress with clinical efficiency. Not the time for desire, no matter how beautiful she looks.
"Will you stay?" she asks as she sinks into the steaming water. "Just…be here?"
"Try to make me leave," I tell her, sitting on the edge of the tub.
While she soaks, I make calls. Set pieces in motion. The Marchetti organization is about to experience systematic dismantling—financial first, then legal, then physical if necessary. By morning, their empire will be in flames.
When Sharon falls asleep that night, exhausted by fear and adrenaline, I slip out of bed and go to my office. Angelo is waiting with updates.
"We've frozen their accounts," he reports. "And the senator came through—federal investigation into their Miami operations launches tomorrow."
"Not good enough." I stare out at the Vegas skyline, the city I own piece by glittering piece. "I want Marchetti himself. Tonight."
Angelo hesitates. "That's crossing a line, boss. Once we go there?—"
"They crossed the line when they came for my wife."
Three hours later, I watch via secure video feed as Marchetti is dragged from his home in the middle of the night. Not by my men—I'm smarter than that—but by federal agents acting on an anonymous tip about terrorist connections. The terrorism charges won't stick, but they don't need to. The damage to his reputation, to his political connections, will be irreparable.
By dawn, I've dismantled half their legitimate businesses. By noon, their illegal operations are exposed to rival families eager to move in on weakened territory. By sunset, the Marchetti name is toxic in Vegas—no one will do business with them, loan them money, even serve them in restaurants.
It's not enough. It won't be enough until I know Sharon is safe—completely, permanently safe.
I'm on the phone with my contact in Miami when she appears in the doorway of my office, hair tousled from sleep, wearing one of my shirts. She takes in the scene—the monitorsshowing surveillance feeds, Angelo and two other men clustered around a table of documents, the grim set of my jaw.
"Fabio?" Her voice is small, uncertain.
I end the call, cross to her immediately. "You should be resting."
"I woke up and you were gone." Her eyes move past me to the operation center my office has become. "What is all this?"
