Page 88 of Ruined By Capture

I understand immediately. For all his ruthlessness in business, Damiano's attachment to his wife runs bone-deep. The man who once swore he'd never marry now can't sleep without Zoe beside him.

"Lucrezia giving you trouble too?" I ask, knowing his sister's temper.

"Merda, yes." He sighs heavily. "Called me every name in the book when she realized I'd sent them to Italy for protection, not an art appreciation vacation. Sofia's the only one not cursing my existence right now."

His gaze shifts to a framed photo on his desk—his daughter Sofia, with Zoe's smile and his dark eyes. The tenderness in his expression is subtle but unmistakable.

"Miss her?" I ask, though I already know the answer.

"Every fucking minute." He straightens, his moment of vulnerability passing as he refocuses on the task at hand. "The team's ready. Noah and Matteo are already in position at the gym."

I nod, feeling Melania step closer to my side. Her fingers brush against mine briefly—a small gesture seeking reassurance. I take her hand, squeezing once before releasing it.

The door swings open without a knock and Enzo strides in like he owns the place. He's carrying a small black case that I recognize immediately.

"Morning, assholes," he says, his voice too loud for this hour. His eyes slide to Melania with a smirk. "Principessa."

Enzo sets the case on Damiano's desk. "Had to double-check the equipment. Can't have you getting shot because the wire failed."

He flips open the case, revealing a small microphone and transmitter. State-of-the-art, practically invisible once properly placed.

"Strip," Enzo commands with a grin that's all teeth.

I glare at him but shrug out of my jacket and lift my shirt. Melania watches, her amber eyes tracking my movements.

Enzo works quickly, his fingers surprisingly deft as he attaches the microphone to my chest and secures the transmitter at my waist.

"Testing," he mutters into his phone. After a pause, he nods. "Noah says it's coming through clear."

"And Matteo?" Damiano asks.

"Already in position. They've got eyes on the gym entrance." Enzo finishes securing the wire. "Remember, they stay in the car unless you signal. We don't want to spook Leonardo with a show of force."

I straighten my shirt, adjusting it to ensure nothing shows.

"Noah will be on the east entrance, Matteo covering the west," Enzo explains. "But they only move in on your signal or if they hear something that indicates you're in immediate danger."

Damiano stands, crossing to the window. "Keep it simple. Get Leonardo alone, let Melania talk to him, assess whether he's willing to help. If he's not, walk away."

I nod, checking my watch again. "We need to move. I want to be in position before Leonardo arrives."

Melania steps forward, her composure perfect despite the rigidity in her shoulders. "Leonardo will listen to me. I know he will."

I hope she's right. Everything hinges on this meeting—not just our case against Antonio and Raymond, but Melania's safety too. If Leonardo betrays us, the consequences will be devastating.

I slip into the gym with embarrassing ease. The kid at the front desk—barely old enough to shave—doesn't even look up from his phone when I approach. I slide five hundred-dollar bills across the counter, more than enough for his silence and temporary blindness.

"I'm waiting for a friend," I say. "Need some privacy in the weight room."

His eyes pop at the cash. No hesitation, no questions—just greedy fingers snatching the bills. "Weight room's all yours, man. I'm on break for the next hour."

I move through the space, cataloging exits and blind spots from habit. The place reeks of money—gleaming machines arranged in perfect rows, polished hardwood floors, walls of mirrors reflecting the dawn light filtering through high windows.

The locker room sits right where Melania described it—a private entrance for elite members who can't bear to change with the common folk. Perfect for our needs.

I shed my jacket, revealing the fitted black T-shirt beneath. The wire pokes my skin but I resist the urge to adjust it. Instead Imove to a bench press and load plates onto the bar. Might as well look the part while I wait.

The weight feels good as I push through a set, muscles burning with familiar strain. I keep my eyes on the door, counting reps while tracking the minutes. If Melania's intel is correct, he'll walk through that door in exactly twelve minutes.

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