Page 17 of Ruined By Capture

"How are things on your end?" I ask.

"Complicated," Damiano admits. "Moving Zoe, Sofia and Lucrezia to Italy wasn't easy. Daniel's with them, plus a couple of men I trust. Zoe's pregnant again as you know so I can't let this war I've started touch them. If what you're saying about Antonio and Stone is true, they'll be even more dangerous than we anticipated."

"So what's the play?"

Damiano is quiet for a moment. "I need to think this through carefully. This changes our approach. I'll call you back."

"Understood," I say, ending the call.

I turn back to the monitor, watching Melania stare at the ceiling. Neither of us will be sleeping tonight.

Something else nags at me though.

Antonio's men will have found the abandoned car by now. The driver I left locked in the trunk will have told them everything—that Melania hired him to drive her away from her wedding.

"Fuck," I mutter.

This changes things. Antonio knows his daughter was trying to escape. That's why he hasn't moved against the Feretti estate yet—where Damiano waits for them with so many men they could start World War III. He can't be certain she was kidnapped rather than simply running away.

I pace the control room, thinking through the implications. This uncertainty gives us an advantage—breathing room we didn't expect. If Antonio believed without doubt that we had taken his daughter, he would have already launched an all-out assault. Instead he's hesitating, probably questioning whether Melania ran of her own accord.

I pull out my phone and text Damiano:Driver Melania hired will have talked by now. Antonio knows she planned to run. That's why they haven't moved against us yet.

His response comes back quickly:I know. The game has changed. Get some rest. You'll need it.

I glance at the monitor where Melania lies motionless on the bed, eyes still open, staring up. She's calculating her next move, just as I am. But she will eventually sleep. I won't.

I head to the kitchen, needing something to take the edge off. Not enough to dull my senses—I never allow that—but enough to ease the tension coiling in my back.

The kitchen is silent, bathed in shadows broken only by the dim light above the stove. I open the cabinet where yesterday I stored a bottle of Macallan 25. The amber liquid catches what little light remains as I pour a finger's worth into a crystal tumbler.

The first sip burns perfectly, warming my throat as I roll the complex flavors across my tongue. Smoke, dried fruits, and a hint of sherry from the casks. It's a ritual that grounds me.

I don't gulp it down. Men who can't savor good scotch can't be trusted with anything of value. I take my time, letting the liquor breathe between sips.

I grab the bottle and glass, then make my way back to the control room. The blue glow of the monitors welcomes me back, casting everything in a frigid light. Melania hasn't moved, still staring at the ceiling, though her eyes occasionally droop now.

I settle into my chair, placing the tumbler on the desk beside the keyboard. The scotch catches the light from the monitors, glowing like molten gold.

Tonight will be a long one. Tomorrow longer still. But for now I have this moment of quiet, this glass of excellent scotch, and a puzzle to solve.

CHAPTER 6

Ijolt awake, with the anxiety of a pounding heart. Sunlight streams through the blinds, casting prison-bar shadows across the unfamiliar bed.

I slept. Despite every intention to resist, my body betrayed me.

The room feels different in daylight—less threatening but more real. This isn't a nightmare I can wake from. I'm truly trapped here, at the mercy of a man who works for my father's enemies.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, my bare feet meeting the cool hardwood floor. My mouth tastes stale, and my hair feels like a tangled mess. The clock on the bedside table reads 7:43 a.m.

Where is Alessio? He never returned after our confrontation about the USB drive.

That thought sends a chill through me. He’s in possession of Raymond's crypto wallet now. All that evidence of the trafficking operation—the faces of those victims, the transaction records, everything I risked my life to steal—is in his hands.

My fingers fiddle with my mother's ring as scenarios race through my mind. What if he's already contacted Raymond? What if he's using the information to negotiate some deal that leaves me disposable?

He doesn't need me alive to use that evidence. In fact, I might be more valuable to him dead.

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