I open it on the secure tablet Oleg hands me, aware that he’s watching my reaction with the kind of careful attention usually reserved for explosives.
Diana sits in a metal folding chair, hands zip-tied behind her, posture rigid with controlled fear. The room around her is generic warehouse interior: concrete floors, fluorescent lighting, no identifying features visible. Her dress is torn slightly at the shoulder. Blood streaks from a cut on her forehead, already drying.
She’s conscious. Barely.
The relief that crashes through me is immediately followed by rage so intense my vision narrows.
“When?” I ask Oleg, not trusting my voice beyond single words.
“Twelve minutes ago. Metadata confirms the image was taken within the past hour.” He pauses. “No accompanying demands yet.”
Which means this isn’t about money or concessions. This is psychological warfare designed to destabilize me emotionally, force reckless retaliation that creates openings Sartore can exploit. Lorenzo wants me angry, impulsive, making decisions driven by fear rather than strategy.
He’s going to get exactly what he wants.
Pavel appears in the doorway of the operations room we’ve converted from the estate’s lower conference space. “Council has been notified. Mikhail is requesting immediate briefing on response protocol.”
“Tell Mikhail I’ll brief him after I’ve handled this.”
“Felix.” Pavel’s tone carries warning. “Whatever you’re planning, consider—”
“I’m done considering.” I set the tablet down carefully, forcing my hands steady through effort alone. “Lorenzo took my wife. That’s a declaration I can’t ignore without losing every shred of authority I’ve built.”
“Exactly what he’s counting on.” Pavel moves closer, lowering his voice. “He wants you to retaliate openly, to escalate this into conflict that forces the council to choose sides. If you move against him directly, you’re playing into strategy he’s already mapped.”
The tactical assessment is correct. Everything about this abduction is designed to provoke response that benefits Sartore positioning. Lorenzo knows I care about Diana beyond operational utility, knows that seeing her restrained and bleeding will override strategic discipline I normally maintain.
He’s right.
He’s also miscalculated the extent to which I’m willing to burn everything to get her back.
“Shut down the Newark port operations,” I tell Oleg. “Freeze every Sartore account we have access to. Intercept the Baltimore shipment and detain the crew for customs violations. I want Lorenzo bleeding from three directions before midnight.”
Oleg’s expression doesn’t shift, but I see the moment he recognizes this is retaliation rather than negotiation. “Thattriggers open conflict. Sartore will respond with equivalent escalation.”
“Good. Let them respond.” I pull up the secure communications interface and begin typing orders to financial handlers, port contacts, federal customs agents on Rudenko payroll. “I want Lorenzo to understand that taking Diana wasn’t a leverage play that gives him advantage. It was the mistake that costs him everything he’s built.”
Pavel exhales slowly. “You’re starting a war.”
“Lorenzo started it when he put his hands on my wife.” The words come out colder than intended. “I’m finishing it.”
The operations room clears quickly as teams mobilize to execute the retaliatory strikes I’ve ordered. Within two hours, Sartore revenue channels begin collapsing—frozen accounts preventing payroll distribution, intercepted shipments triggering federal investigations, detained lieutenants providing testimony under pressure that will take months to contain legally.
The damage is immediate and expensive. Lorenzo will feel this across every operational division, will spend weeks rebuilding infrastructure I’m dismantling with phone calls and encrypted transfers.
It doesn’t bring Diana back.
I stand alone in the operations room staring at the image of her restrained in that chair, blood drying on her forehead, and allow myself exactly one minute of unfiltered emotion.
Rage at Sartore for taking her. Rage at myself for believing security measures would be sufficient, for allowing her into public spaces where vulnerabilities could be exploited, for ever thinking she could be fully protected while remaining married to me.
The protectiveness that’s driven decisions for weeks crystalizes into something sharper and more dangerous.
Diana isn’t just my wife or my chosen attachment or the variable that’s compromised my strategic detachment.
She’s mine in ways that transcend operational classifications, and someone put hands on what belongs to me.
The minute ends. I pull out my phone and call Pavel.
