When his breathing evens out again, I finish dressing and grab my jacket.
The safe house is quiet as I make my way to the door. The guards are outside, but I know their rotation schedule.
There’s a two-minute window when they’re both on the far side of the building. I wait, counting the seconds, then slip out into the night.
The old Moretti house is on the other side of the city, in the neighborhood where I grew up.
I haven’t been back since my father died, haven’t wanted to face the memories.
But now I drive through familiar streets, past the park where Tony taught me to ride a bike, past the corner store where we used to buy candy with change we earned from doing chores.
The house looks smaller than I remember, more run down.
The windows are dark, and the front door hangs slightly open. Every instinct screams at me to turn around, to go back to Mikhail and tell him everything.
But I think of Tony’s face, of the brother I lost and found again, and I force myself to keep walking.
I push open the door, and it creaks on rusty hinges. “Tony?” My voice echoes in the empty space. “Tony, are you here?”
A light flicks on in the living room, and I see him. Tony stands in the center of the room, his dark hair falling into his green eyes, his posture tense. For a moment, hope flares in my chest.
Then I see the man standing behind him, and my blood turns to ice.
Lorenzo steps out of the shadows, his blue eyes cold and calculating, a smile playing at his lips. “Hello, Sophia. So good of you to join us.”
24
MIKHAIL
The empty bed mocks me.
I stare at the rumpled sheets where Sophia should be sleeping, my heart already racing with dread.
The pillow still holds the indent of her head, and when I press my hand against it, the fabric is cold.
She’s been gone long enough for the sheets to turn cold.
“Sophia?” I call out, already knowing she won’t answer. I check the bathroom, the closet, even the goddamn balcony, but she’s nowhere. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I yank it out with shaking hands.
A text from an unknown number.Your wife is very brave. Or very stupid. Old Moretti house. Come alone.
Ice floods my veins. Lorenzo.
I’m moving before my brain catches up, grabbing my Glock from the nightstand and shoving it into my waistband.
“Marco!” I roar, bursting into the hallway.
He appears from the guest room, weapon already drawn. “Boss?”
“Sophia’s gone. Lorenzo has her at the old Moretti place.” I’m already heading for the stairs. “Get everyone. Now.”
“That’s a trap.”
“I don’t give a fuck what it is.” I spin to face him, and whatever he sees in my expression makes him step back. “My wife is there. That’s all that matters.”
The drive to the Moretti house takes forty-five minutes that feel like fifteen hours.
My hands grip the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turn white. Behind me, three SUVs full of my men follow, but I know Lorenzo’s message said to come alone.
