Page 58 of Veil of the Past

Font Size:

Page 58 of Veil of the Past

We race to Alessia’s apartment, the drive a blur of city lights and tension. My hands grip the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turn white. When we finally pull up to her building and take the stairs two at a time to her floor, the scene that greets us stops me cold.

The door to her apartment is busted wide open, splinters of wood scattered across the floor. Just outside, two bodyguards lie unconscious, tied up like discarded dolls.

“Goddammit,” Emiliano breathes, rushing forward.

We enter the apartment cautiously, our hearts hammering in our chests. The place is empty, not a sound. No sign of a struggle inside, no broken glass, no overturned furniture. Just the chilling emptiness.

But on the coffee table, there’s a note. I snatch it up, my hands trembling.

You thought you could keep them safe? Think again. - H

Fuck. The blood drains from my face. Helen. Of course, it’s her. My mother, the woman who sold me into the Syndicate. I grip the note so hard it crumples in my hand. And then my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out to see a new message. No number. Just a picture.

It’s them. Alessia, Valentina, and Mara. All unconscious, tied up, gagged. Blood drips down their faces. My eyes zero in on Alessia. My Alessia. My heart stops. For a second, I can’t breathe, can’t think. A darkness crashes over me, a wave of panic and rage and something so sharp it feels like a knife twisting in my gut.

“They’re gone,” I whisper, my voice barely a breath. “She took them.”

“Fuck,” Emiliano snaps, pacing, running his hands through his hair. “We need to move, and fast.”

“We might be able to track the phone through cell towers,” I tell him; Matteo has done it thousands of times.

Emiliano’s nodding. “I’ll call Matteo. He’ll know how to track them. But we need to be quick.”

I’m barely listening. My mind is spiraling.Alessia.I let this happen. I left her alone, and now she’s in Helen’s hands. My mother—if you can even call her that. The woman who thrives on chaos, who won’t stop until she’s taken everything from me.

I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. “We need to get to the club, to the Camorra’s headquarters. Matteo can set up there.”

We rush out, but the car ride is silent, tension hanging thick in the air. I grip the wheel, my mind racing with every possibility, every scenario. My phone vibrates again. Another text.

Uknown Number

You have no idea what’s coming, Romiro. You better start praying. - H

“Nicolo,” I mutter. “I need to call Nicolo. If anyone can help us find Helen, it’s him.”

Emiliano glances over. “Nicolo tends to stay out of the Camorra’s business.”

“Not when it concerns Helen,” I grit out. “He’ll come. He has to.”

I hit the speed dial, my heart hammering as my fingers grip the phone so tightly that the case digs into my skin.

The line rings, once, twice. “Come on,” I mutter under my breath. “Pick up. Pick up.”

On the third ring, he answers. “Romiro?” His voice is calm and steady. A lifeline in the chaos.

“I need you,” I say, my voice raw, desperate. “It’s Helen. She’s taken Alessia and the others. I need your help.”

There’s a pause, a heartbeat of silence, and then his voice, firm, resolute. “I’m on my way back to New York, text me your location.”

I hang up, my heart pounding, my mind racing. This isn’t over. Not by a long shot. I’m not going to let her win. Not this time. Not ever.

I take another swig of bourbon from my flask, letting the burning fuel the fire in my chest. We’re going to find them. All of them. We’re going to bring them back. And Helen… Helen will pay for every second she keeps them away from me.

As I look around the darkened room, at the men I’ve come to trust, at the tension etched on their faces, I feel a cold determination settle over me. The stakes have never been higher. The battle lines are drawn. And I will do whatever it takes to bring them home.

* * *

The club is buzzingwith low murmurs, the bass of the music throbbing through my veins. I’m back in the dimly lit heart of the Camorra's world. It’s too familiar, the haze of smoke curling up toward the ceiling, the low lights casting long shadows across the polished floors. The red glow from the neon lights on the bar is the only warmth in this cold place. It’s a stark contrast to the icy tension gnawing at my insides.