Dante. Dante Conti. The head of the family. Not Rafe, but someone above him.
"No catch," Dante replied. "Just a clean slate. A fresh start between our families."
"And what about my daughter?"
My breath caught. Finally. The real reason for this meeting. My father was here to negotiate my release, to bring me home, to?—
"What about her?" Dante asked, sounding genuinely confused.
"Grace," my father clarified, an edge of impatience in his voice. "My daughter. Harvard Law. Blonde. The one your brother has taken a... special interest in."
The way he said "special interest" made my skin crawl—clinical, detached, as if discussing a business transaction rather than a kidnapping.
"Ah," Dante said, understanding dawning in his voice. "That."
"Yes, that," my father replied dryly. "I assume her return is part of this 'fresh start' you're proposing?"
There was a pause, then the sound of a chair scraping against the floor, footsteps moving across the room.
"Patrick," Dante said, his voice lower now, more intimate. "Let's be frank with each other. Your daughter has been missing for two weeks. In that time, you haven't filed a police report. Haven't contacted the FBI. Haven't even hired a private investigator. If my sources are correct, you told your household staff she's on a study retreat in Vermont."
My stomach dropped, a cold weight settling in my chest.
"My family business is my business," my father said stiffly. "How I handle my daughter's... situation... is my concern."
"Of course," Dante agreed smoothly. "And how my brother handles his personal affairs is his concern. So perhaps we can agree that Grace's current circumstances need not factor into our professional arrangement."
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. The words echoed in my head, each one a hammer blow against everything I'd believed.
My father hadn't been looking for me. Hadn't been trying to save me. Hadn't even acknowledged I was missing.
"She's still my daughter," my father said, but the words sounded hollow, perfunctory. "I have certain... expectations regarding her treatment."
"I can assure you she's being treated well," Dante replied. "Better than well. My brother is... devoted to her comfort."
"And her safety?"
"Guaranteed. Rafe is many things, but he's not cruel. Not to those he... values."
There was a long silence, broken only by the sound of liquid being poured into glasses. A drink to seal the deal. To finalize the transaction.
"Graven Hill," my father said finally. "Full control. No interference. And my daughter remains... comfortable."
"You have my word," Dante replied. "Do we have an agreement?"
"We do."
The sound of glasses clinking together was the final blow. My father had just negotiated away territory, grievances, and vendettas—but not me. Not his daughter. I wasn't even part of the equation. Just a footnote, a detail to be clarified but not resolved.
I stumbled back from the door, my legs suddenly unable to support me. I sank into a chair, my mind reeling, my chest so tight I could barely breathe.
Rafe had been telling the truth. No one was looking for me. No one was coming to save me. My own father had written me off as a loss, a complication better ignored than addressed.
I don't know how long I sat there, staring blindly at the floor, the voices from the next room continuing their business discussion as if they hadn't just shattered my entire world. Minutes or hours could have passed; time seemed to lose all meaning in the face of such betrayal.
The click of the main door opening barely registered. Footsteps approached—measured, deliberate, familiar.
"Now you know," Rafe said quietly, standing before me. "Now you understand."
