“This her?” he asks. His gaze sweeps over me slowly, critically, with a disregard that chills me deeper than the rain has. A thick scar runs down the left side of his face, puckering the skin around his mouth and pulling it into a permanent, cruel twist.
“Where’s my son?” I demand.
No one answers me.
One of the men gripping my arms says calmly, almost bored, “Yes. The boy should be right behind us.”
My heart lurches violently, hope and terror colliding so hard it nearly drops me to my knees. I yank against the restraints, desperation flooding through me.
“Let me see him, please,” I plead. “I want to see that he’s okay.”
Finally, the man with the scar looks at me again. “You will see your son when our boss says you can. Until that time, I suggest you shut the fuck up and do as you’re told.”
The words land like a slap.
They drag me deeper into the estate without another word. I’m brought down a hallway that stretches on forever, every step echoing off the marble floors. At the end of the hall stand two massive doors, dark wood reinforced with an iron filigree design wrapping around the borders.
The man with the scar reaches them first.
One gloved hand lifts, fingers curling around the handle on the left. He gives it one hard yank before it parts from the jamb. Light spills out in a warm, golden wash that feels obscene after the violence of being dragged here.
Inside, gold chandeliers glimmer overhead, their crystal facets catching the light and scattering it across richly paneled walls. Persian rugs soften the floor beneath my feet when I step inside. Leather chairs and polished tables are placed sparsely around the space. Everything looks carefully curated to signal wealth.
The air is heavy with cigar smoke. It coats my tongue instantly, making my stomach churn. Waiting for me and lounginglike this is just another evening event rather than a hostage exchange, are three men.
My gaze snaps first to the one on the left.
Carlo Toselli.
Don of the Palermo syndicate. A nowformerally of the Cosenza family. A man whose dinners Cesare once attended and whose handshakes once meant to be a signal of unity instead of divide. He looks older than I remember, thicker through the waist, his hair long gone silver at his temples. But his eyes are filled with that same sharp, calculating amusement he’s always carried.
Beside him sits Enzo.
My breath catches painfully in my throat.
The ghost behind Matteo’s death, the architect of the fracture that tore the Cosenza family apart. The man who turned Dante into someone harder, colder… someone capable of looking at me like I was the enemy.
Seeing him now is indescribable.
It’s validation wrapped in horror.
And now he’s smiling at me. It isn’t a smug grin. No, he smiles like we’re old friends reunited under unfortunate circumstances.
My hands curl into fists behind my back.
The third man sits slightly apart from the others whom I don’t recognize at all.
He’s younger than the others, broad-shouldered, posture relaxed in a way that feels practiced rather than natural. His clothes are understated but expensive looking. He watches mewith open interest, head tilted slightly like he’s assessing me as an investment rather than a person.
The guards force me forward another step and then stop. I remain standing while they continue to sit. Carlo exhales a slow stream of smoke from his lips, eyes flicking over me lazily.
“Elena,” he says, his voice almost fond. “You look… tired.”
Enzo chuckles softly beside him, the sound grating in its ease as if this entire situation is some private joke they’re sharing at my expense. He leans forward then, unhurried, and taps the edge of his cigar against the ashtray on the polished table in front of him. Ash falls neatly before he leans back again to settle against the couch behind him.
The tip of the cigar flares when he brings it back to his lips and inhales, cheeks hollowing slightly as he draws the smoke in deep. He exhales slowly, letting it curl into the air above him.
Fear claws at my throat, but I refuse to let it show. I lift my chin before straightening my spine. Regardless of whether they think this is all one big joke, I won’t give them the satisfaction of watching me break.
