Page 22 of Ivory Oath

He’s right, but I hear what he’s not saying.

If Viviana is here, there should be more security.

I shove the thought away and focus on the next right step. Right now, that’s getting to Agostino.

The elevator doors open with a quiet mechanical whirr, but there’s no bell to announce our arrival. No telltale chime. Maybe that’s why no one comes rushing out from the hallway to the right to demand to know what we’re doing here.

Or maybe no one is home.

The lights are off. Raoul and I make our way through the entryway and across the living room using nothing but the ambient light coming from the floor-to-ceiling windows. The apartment is chic and modern—all sharp edges, shades of gray, and exposed concrete. His penthouse is a midlife crisis if I’ve ever seen one.

I try to imagine Dante’s dinosaur night light plugged into the sockets or Viviana’s books stacked on the pristine coffee table. I try to imagine her and Dante living here, part of the Giordano family, but it’s all wrong.

Because she doesn’t belong here. She never did.

The clock in the sitting room says it’s almost five. Raoul and I have spent hours darting all over the city looking for her.

We’re wasting time.

“Agostino!” I yell.

My voice echoes off the concrete walls as Raoul lunges for me.

“What in the hell are you thinking?” he hisses, dragging me back. “You’re giving us up.”

I shake him off. “I’m not wasting anymore time.” I tear down the hallway, kicking in doors as I go. “Where is she, Agostino? Tell me where Viviana is!”

The house is eerily silent, but I know he’s here. I can feel it.

I approach the door at the end of the hall, gun raised. “Open up or I’m shooting down the door.”

“We don’t even know if he’s in there,” Raoul argues quietly. “People will hear you blasting away in here. We can’t find Viviana from jail.”

Raoul has clearly reached his quota of flying by the seat of our pants. But for the first time in days, I feel perfectly at ease.

“Three!” I yell, cocking the gun. “Two! One?—”

The lock turns and the door cracks open. Agostino slides his empty hands through the door first, palms up. “Quite the wake-up call, Mikhail. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

He’s wearing a rumpled button-down shirt and dress pants. His eyes are rimmed in shadows. I haven’t seen him in a few years, but he looks older. Worn.

He also looks like Viviana.

They have the same angular chin and turned-up nose. The same blood running in their veins.

This man watched Viviana grow up from a baby into the woman she is today, yet he tossed her to the wolves at every opportunity.

Before I can stop myself, I toss my gun to the floor and lunge for Agostino Giordano’s throat.

As soon as my fist connects with his face, I regret every punch I wasted in the gym. Hitting Agostino feels so much better than any punching bag ever has.

Blood and spit flies. Agostino throws up his arms to shield himself, but he’s spent too many years behind a wall of guards. He inherited his position from his father and, when the going got tough, he used his daughter as a bartering chip. Agostino hasn’t forgotten how to fight; he just never learned in the first place.

“Please,” he begs between blows.

I don’t let up. I don’t slow down.

I can’t.

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