Page 72 of Passion and Revenge

The sound of approaching footsteps breaks me out of my impending panic attack, and I glance up to see a figure shielded by shadows.

“Good, you’re awake.”

My eyes widen as the bulb flickers again, washing the man’s face with light for a split second, which is long enough for me to see the way his mouth is pulled into a smirk.

His voice is different—darker and harder. That’s why I was having so much trouble placing it. He sounds nothing like the man who, just a few days ago, told me he loved me and begged for another chance, but it’s unmistakably him.

“Sal,” I breathe.

The lights flicker again, and I see him reach for me.

Alessandro

Sixty-two days, seventeen hours, fifty-two minutes, and forty-three…forty-four…forty-five…

“Boss.”

The voice is an annoying intrusion, and I raise my head to shoot the dead man a lethal glare. Maurizio’s face is a sheet of white, and a little bit of pride replaces my fury when he takes a brave step forward. Greater men would have tucked their tails between their legs and run.

I throw back the glass of bourbon and allow the glass to dangle from my fingers. “What is it?”

“Gonzales wants to know if?—”

My fingers twitch for a gun, but I settle for tuning him out. I don’t want to hear about my business deals or the men I have to keep in line. I just want to sit here and sulk like a fucking loser.

“Many of the men are becoming curious about your continued absence. There’s a lot of rumors in the city, and nobody’s sure you’re still alive. Nobody’s seen?—”

“Maurizio,” I grunt, stopping his unwanted information, “the next time you bother me, I’ll carve a hole through your chest and carefully dig out your heart so you’ll stay alive for a while with your fucking heart outside your body.”

He swallows. “S—sorry, boss.”

A second later, he’s gone, and I drop my head back, trying to convince myself that Sienna’s smell is still lingering in the air.

Fifty-six minutes…twenty-two…twenty-three…

My phone buzzes, and I turn to it with my lips peeled back into a snarl. Whoever is on the other end of that line, I’m going to hunt the bastard down for sport and peel their?—

I blink at the caller ID. Why the hell is the prosecutor calling me?

Has something happened to Sienna?

“Alessandro, I need your help,” he rasps when I pick up, his voice raw and strained.

My spine stiffens, and I sit up, my fingers tightening around the empty glass in my hands. I force myself to relax, and I do a passable job of sounding amused when I state, “You need my help. Isn’t that ironic?”

“I know you hate me.”

“Hate is a very mild word, prosecutor.”

“Damn it, Mancini. I don’t have time to parry with you right now,” he growls. “I don’t care what you feel about me right now. I don’t know why you let Sienna go or why you disappeared. I don’t even know why I’m asking you this.”

My mouth settled into a grim line. “What are you asking me, D’Addario?”

“It’s Sienna. She—” he trails off, his voice choking. “She’s gone.”

At those words, I lean forward, blood pounding in my head. “What do you mean gone?”

“Someone’s taken her. They snatched her right off the street. The cops found her purse in an alleyway this afternoon, and a while ago, I received a text with a picture of her tied up like an animal.”

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