Dante studied me, seeing something he'd never witnessed before—not just anger or determination, but a fundamental shift in priorities, in loyalties, in the very foundation of who I was.
"You love her," he said finally, the realization dawning with uncomfortable clarity. "Not just want her. Not just obsess over her. You actually love her."
I didn't answer, didn't need to. The truth was written in every line of my body, every flicker of emotion across my usually controlled features.
"Well, shit," Dante muttered, moving to what remained of the bar cart and pouring himself a drink from a surviving bottle. "That complicates things."
"No," I countered. "It simplifies them. I'm getting her back. That's the only thing that matters now."
Dante downed his drink in one swallow, then set the glass down with deliberate care. "Alright. But we do this smart. We gather intelligence. We identify weaknesses. We create a plan that minimizes risk to the family, to our interests, to the girl herself. No rushing in half-cocked on a suicide mission fueled by emotions you've never learned to handle."
It was as close to support as Dante would offer, and I recognized it as such. I nodded once, a tight, controlled movement that belied the chaos still raging inside me.
"Twenty-four hours," I conceded. "Then I move, with or without a perfect plan."
Dante sighed again but nodded. "I'll put our best people on it. In the meantime, try not to destroy any more furniture. It's imported."
He left, closing the door softly behind him, leaving me alone with the wreckage of my office and the even greater devastation of my carefully constructed world.
By the third day,the entire Conti estate was walking on eggshells around me.
I hadn't slept—not more than brief snatches between strategy sessions, intelligence briefings, and my own relentless pacing. I could feel the dark circles shadowing my eyes, my normally immaculate appearance giving way to stubbled cheeks and rumpled clothing. I moved through the house like a ghost, or perhaps more accurately, like a predator in too small a cage—restless, dangerous, unpredictable.
Staff avoided me. Guards gave me wide berth. Even my captains—men who had faced down rival families, law enforcement, and death itself without flinching—found reasons to report to Dante instead, to avoid the razor's edge of my temper, the cold fury that radiated from me like a physical force.
In the war room—a secure space in the east wing where the family conducted its most sensitive business—maps and surveillance photos covered the walls. The O'Sullivan estate. Patrick's office building. His known properties throughout the city. Security rotations. Access points. Weaknesses identified and marked in red.
I stood before them now, hands braced on the table, studying the information for the hundredth time, looking for something I'd missed, some approach I hadn't considered, some way to reach her that wouldn't result in all-out war between the families.
"The north perimeter is still our best option," I said to the men gathered around the table—Dante, Luca, and the three captains who had earned enough trust to be included in this most personal of operations. "Security is lighter there. The terrain provides cover. We can be in and out before they realize what's happening."
"Except they're expecting us," Luca countered, pointing to the latest surveillance photos. "Look at the patrol patterns. They've doubled security on the north side. They know it's the most vulnerable approach, and they're waiting for us to try it."
I straightened, running a hand through my hair in a gesture of frustration that had become increasingly common in the past days. "Then we create a diversion. Hit another property. Draw their attention elsewhere."
"And risk open warfare with the O'Sullivans?" Dante asked, his voice carefully neutral. "That's not a decision to make lightly, brother. Not even for her."
"I don't care about warfare," I snapped, my control slipping again. "I don't care about business implications or territorial disputes or the delicate fucking balance of power between our families. I care about getting her out of there before Patrick can?—"
I stopped abruptly, the thought too terrible to voice. Before Patrick could what? Hurt her? Use her? Trade her to someone else as part of some new alliance, some new business arrangement that treated his daughter as nothing more than a commodity to be exchanged?
The possibilities had been haunting me for days, driving sleep away, feeding the rage that simmered just beneath my carefully maintained facade of control.
"We know," Dante said, his voice gentler than usual. "But rushing in without a solid plan doesn't help her. It just createsmore complications, more danger, more variables we can't control."
I turned away, moving to the window that overlooked the estate grounds. In the distance, I could see the gardens where Grace had walked, the bench where she had sometimes sat reading, the paths we had traveled together during her limited freedom on the grounds.
The sight sent a fresh wave of pain through me—not the hot rage of before, but something deeper, more fundamental. An ache that seemed to reach into my very bones, hollowing me out from the inside.
"Leave us," Dante ordered the others. They complied immediately, filing out of the room with visible relief at escaping the tension, the unpredictability, the sense that something was about to break in a way that couldn't be repaired.
When only the three brothers remained, Dante spoke again, his voice low and serious. "This isn't like you, Rafe. The lack of sleep, the emotional decisions, the disregard for consequences. You've always been the rational one. The strategist. The one who sees three moves ahead while everyone else is focused on the immediate play."
"This is different," I said, not turning from the window.
"Because it's her," Luca supplied, speaking for the first time in several minutes. "Because it's Grace."
I nodded, a single, sharp movement that conveyed both acknowledgment and impatience with having to state the obvious.
