Dante Moretti POV
The phone call didn’t just break the silence of my office; it detonated it.
"We have Seraphina," the voice on the other end rasped, distortion layering the words with grit. "She's alive. And we're going to finish what the Bratva started unless you bring five million to the docks."
My heart slammed against my ribs, hammering out a violent rhythm I hadn't felt in months.
Seraphina.
She had vanished three days ago. I had convinced myself it was for the best. I had told myself she was dangerous, unstable—a wildfire I couldn't control.
But the silence in the penthouse was deafening. Lucia's incessant prattle about baby names and nursery colors had begun to feel like static interfering with a radio signal.
"Let me speak to her," I demanded, my grip tightening on the mahogany desk.
"No talking. Just payment." The line went dead.
I didn't think. I moved. Instinct took the wheel. I grabbed my keys and my gun in one fluid motion.
"Dante?" Lucia called from the living room, her voice shrill against my panic. "Where are you going?"
"Business," I said, not looking at her. I couldn't. If I looked at her, I would see the woman I chose—the safe option. And right now, all I wanted was the woman I had discarded.
I drove to the hospital first. Lola. The bartender. She was the only one Sera ever really talked to.
I found her smoking outside her apartment building, leaning against the brickwork with a weary slouch. I slammed the car door, the sound echoing like a gunshot.
"Where is she?" I barked, pinning her with a look that usually made grown men beg for mercy.
Lola blew a lazy stream of smoke in my face. "Gone, asshole. And good riddance."
"Someone has her," I said, my voice dropping to a dangerous growl. "A kidnapper called. They want ransom."
Lola laughed. It was a harsh, barking sound that grated on my nerves. "Kidnapped? She's on a beach in the southern hemisphere by now, Dante. I saw the flight confirmation. She's gone."
"Then who..." I trailed off, confusion warring with the adrenaline in my veins.
My phone buzzed again. A text. A photo.
It wasn't Seraphina.
It was Lucia.
She was tied to a chair in a warehouse, fear etched into her features. A gun pressed to her temple.
The text read: "Wrong wife. We have the favorite. Bring the money. Or the heir dies."
My stomach dropped as if the floor had vanished beneath me. I had left her alone in the penthouse. The guards... where the hell were the guards?
I ran back to the car. I called the head of security. No answer.
I drove like a man possessed to the coordinates sent in the text. An abandoned textile factory in Queens.
I didn't call for backup. I needed to fix this. I needed to save the mother of my child.
But as I drove, tearing through red lights, a dark thought clawed at my mind. Why did the first caller say they had Seraphina? Why the confusion?
I pulled up to the factory. It was a rotting husk of brick and broken glass, looming against the grey sky. I checked my clip. Full.
I moved into the shadows, hugging the wall. I breached the side door, silent as a ghost. I expected guards. I expected resistance.
There was nothing. Just the melancholy drip of water and the scurrying of rats.
I moved toward the main floor, weapon raised. I heard voices.
"Is he coming?" A woman's voice. Impatient. Annoyed.
"He's coming, babe. Relax. The tracker shows he's two minutes out." A man's voice. Rough. Familiar.
I froze.
I peered around a rusted pillar.
Lucia was there.
She wasn't tied up. She was sitting on a crate, casually eating an apple.
The man was standing next to her, checking his phone. It was Marco. One of my own soldiers. A man I had trusted with my life.
"You sure he'll pay?" Marco asked, glancing at the entrance.
"He paid for Seraphina, didn't he?" Lucia laughed, a cold, calculating sound. "He traded her to the Russians. He'll pay double for the 'heir'."
She rubbed her stomach possessively.
"Besides," she continued, taking a crunchy bite of the apple. "I need the cash. This baby isn't going to be cheap, especially since it's yours, Marco. We need to disappear before it comes out looking like you."
The world stopped. The factory walls seemed to close in, crushing the air from my lungs.
The baby. Marco. The kidnapping.
It was all a lie.
