"Then I'll help her," I said finally, the words torn from somewhere deep and honest. "I'll give her money, resources, protection—whatever she needs to build the life she wants, away from all of this. Away from me, if that's what she chooses."
The admission—the willingness to let her go if that was truly what she wanted—cost me more than I could express. But itwas truth, raw and unvarnished. I loved her enough to want her happiness above my own, her freedom above my desire to possess her, her choice above my need to control every aspect of her existence.
Luca studied me for a long moment, then nodded, something like respect flickering across his features. "You really do love her," he said softly. "Not just want her. Not just obsess over her. You actually love her."
"Yes," I acknowledged, the word simple but carrying the weight of a revelation, a transformation, a fundamental shift in who I was and what I valued most. "I do."
That night,alone in my bedroom, I stood at the window watching darkness settle over the estate grounds. The day had been productive—Dante had approved the plan, arrangements were being made for a formal approach to Patrick O'Sullivan, intelligence was being gathered on the security surrounding Grace, on her exact location within the O'Sullivan estate, on the timeline for the proposed marriage to Alejandro Vega.
Everything was in motion. The pieces were falling into place. Within days, I would be face to face with Patrick, would be implementing the next phase of the plan, would be one step closer to bringing Grace back where she belonged—or setting her free, if that was truly what she wanted.
The thought still hurt, still sent a pang through me that felt like physical pain. But I had meant what I'd said to Luca. If freedom was what Grace chose—real freedom, not just a different kind of cage—then I would help her achieve it, whatever the cost to myself, to my own desires, to the future I had imagined for us.
I moved to the dresser where a framed photograph stood—Grace at her piano, unaware of the camera capturing her ina moment of private joy, of connection to the music that had always been her escape, her solace, her one true freedom even in captivity. I had taken the photo myself, had kept it close during the months of her stay, had looked at it in moments of doubt or frustration or the rare instances when my conscience had troubled me about what I had done, what I continued to do to a woman who had never asked to be part of my world.
I picked up the frame now, my fingers tracing the curve of her cheek, the line of her jaw, the fall of her hair across her shoulders as she bent over the keys, lost in the music, briefly free of the constraints I had placed upon her.
"I'm coming for you," I whispered to the image, the words both promise and prayer. "Whatever it takes. Whatever the cost. I'm coming for you, Grace."
And in that moment, in the silence of my room with only her photograph as witness, I made a vow—not just to retrieve her from her father's control, not just to prevent the fate Patrick had planned for her, but to give her what I had never truly offered before.
A choice. Real freedom. The right to determine her own path, her own future, her own fate—even if that choice led her away from me, even if she decided that freedom meant a life without Rafe Conti in it.
It would destroy me. Would leave a hole in my life that nothing could fill. Would take from me the one person who had made me feel something beyond the cold calculation, the controlled violence, the emotional distance that had defined me for so long.
But I would do it. For her. For Grace. For the woman who had changed everything about who I thought I was, who I could be.
Because that, I was beginning to understand, was what love truly meant.
27
RAFE
The O'Sullivan estate loomed before me, a sprawling colonial mansion set back from the road behind wrought iron gates and a stone wall that had probably stood for a century. Security cameras tracked my approach, their mechanical eyes swiveling to follow the sleek black Bentley as it rolled up the long driveway.
I'd come alone. No backup. No hidden team waiting to storm the place. Just me, a single gun holstered beneath my jacket, and a plan that relied more on psychological warfare than physical force.
Patrick wouldn't expect that. Wouldn't believe that Rafe Conti—the calculated enforcer, the cold strategist, the man who always moved with precision and overwhelming advantage—would walk into enemy territory without an army at his back.
That was the point.
The car stopped at the security checkpoint thirty yards from the main house. Two guards approached—professional, alert, hands resting near their weapons without drawing them. They recognized me immediately. I saw it in the widening of theireyes, the sudden tension in their postures, the quick glance they exchanged.
I rolled down the window, my expression neutral, my hands visible on the steering wheel.
"I'm here to see Patrick O'Sullivan," I said, my voice steady and controlled. "He's expecting me."
A lie, but delivered with such confidence that it created momentary uncertainty. The guards hesitated, caught between protocol and the audacity of my arrival.
"Wait here," the senior guard finally said, stepping back to speak into his radio, his voice too low for me to catch the words.
I waited, outwardly calm despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins, the hyperawareness of every detail around me—the positions of the guards, the locations of the cameras, the distance to the house, the potential obstacles between me and Grace.
Grace. The thought of her name centered me, focused me, reminded me why I was here. Why I was taking this risk. Why nothing—not protocol, not security, not Patrick O'Sullivan's entire organization—would stop me from reaching her today.
After a tense minute, the guard returned, his expression carefully blank. "Drive to the main entrance. You'll be escorted inside."
Interesting. I'd expected more resistance, more questions, more time while they consulted with Patrick. The ease of my entry suggested either overconfidence or a trap—possibly both.
