The moment Marco's call came through, something inside me broke.
I'd been reviewing property acquisitions in my office when my phone lit up with his name. One glance at the time told me it was too early—they shouldn't have reached the cabin yet. My hand was steady when I answered, my voice controlled as always.
"Report."
Then the words that shattered everything: "They took her. O'Sullivan's men. Professional job. Three vehicles, coordinated attack. I couldn't stop them."
For three heartbeats, I said nothing. The silence stretched between us, heavy with implications, with failure, with the sudden, yawning void where certainty had been moments before.
"Are you injured?" I asked finally, my voice unnaturally calm even to my own ears.
"Superficial. They held me at gunpoint. Made it clear what would happen to her if I tried anything."
"Where are you now?"
"Side of the highway. Police are coming. Our cleanup crew is already en route."
"Get back here. Immediately."
I ended the call and set the phone down with deliberate care. Then, with the same measured precision, I swept everything from my desk—papers, laptop, crystal decanter, family photographs—sending it all crashing to the floor in a cacophony of breaking glass and splintering wood.
The sound brought guards running, guns drawn. They found me standing motionless amid the destruction, my expression blank, my eyes focused on something they couldn't see.
"Sir?" one ventured, holstering his weapon. "Is everything?—"
"Get out." The words left my mouth softly, almost gently, but carried such menace that both men backed away immediately.
"And send Dante to me," I added as they reached the door. "Now."
Alone again, I moved to the window, staring out at the grounds that suddenly seemed empty, purposeless, devoid of the one thing that had given them meaning. She was gone. Taken. In the hands of Patrick O'Sullivan—the man who had abandoned her, who had declared her expendable, who had treated his own daughter as nothing more than a business complication to be managed.
The man who would now use her for whatever new purpose he had conceived.
The thought sent a wave of rage through me so intense it momentarily blurred my vision. My hands clenched at my sides, knuckles white, the control I'd maintained my entire life suddenly gossamer-thin, ready to tear at the slightest provocation.
When Dante arrived twenty minutes later, he found me still at the window, unnaturally still, like a predator poised to strike.
"What happened?" he asked, closing the door behind him, taking in the destruction with a raised eyebrow.
"O'Sullivan took her." Three words, delivered with such cold fury that Dante actually took a step back. "His men intercepted Marco on the way to the cabin. Professional job. Coordinated. Planned."
Dante processed this, his expression shifting from surprise to calculation. "Interesting timing. Just as you were letting her go."
I turned, my eyes meeting my brother's with an intensity that would have made a lesser man flinch. "You think this is a coincidence? That Patrick suddenly decided his daughter was worth retrieving after months of indifference? After explicitly telling our representatives he had 'moved on from that particular complication'?"
"No," Dante conceded, moving further into the room, careful to maintain distance from my coiled tension. "Not a coincidence. A move in a larger game. The question is what game? What does Patrick gain by taking her back now?"
"I don't care." My voice was flat, final. "I don't care what game he's playing, what he hopes to gain, what strategy he's employing. I'm getting her back."
Dante sighed, running a hand through his hair—a rare gesture of frustration from the usually composed head of the Conti family. "Rafe, think. This is clearly a provocation. Patrick wants a reaction. Wants us to make a move that justifies whatever he's planning next. We need to be strategic, to consider all angles, to?—"
"I don't care," I repeated, each word like a shard of ice. "I'm getting her back. With or without your approval. With or without Conti resources. With or without regard for the consequences to our business interests."
The declaration hung between us, unprecedented in our relationship. Never had I—the strategist, the rational one, thebrother who always put family interests first—spoken of acting against Dante's wishes, against the collective good of the Contis.
"You would risk everything," Dante said slowly, "for this girl? This O'Sullivan who's been nothing but a complication since the moment you decided you wanted her?"
"Yes." No hesitation. No qualification. Just absolute certainty.
