Page 97 of Ruined By Capture

I stand rigid behind Melania, watching Leonardo's expression shift as he examines the safe's contents.

"Leo, what else is in there?" Melania presses, her fingers gripping the edge of the desk.

Leonardo's face hardens with disappointment. "Nothing like what you described, Mel. Just cash—a lot of it—and gold bars. No USB or anything else."

"Close it," Melania says, her voice cracking slightly. "Close it now, Leo."

Leonardo slams the safe door shut, spinning the dial. "Two seconds to spare," he breathes, relief washing over his features.

I lean forward to speak in that deadly quiet tone that makes even hardened men flinch. "Get that portfolio to our man waiting outside. Now."

"Don't open it," Melania cuts in desperately. "Please, Leo. I'll explain everything soon but I'm begging you—don't look inside."

Leonardo's eyes narrow but he nods. "Fine. I trust you, Mel. But I want out of here one way or another." He glances over his shoulder. "I can't stay much longer."

"I'll call you," Melania promises. "Just get that portfolio to the man."

"I will." Leonardo clutches the leather-bound folder. "Be safe,sorellina."

The screen goes black as Leonardo ends the call. Melania slumps back in her chair, the weight of everything crashing down on her at once. Her fingers twist her mother's ring frantically.

Enzo's phone buzzes. He answers with a curt "Si?" After a brief exchange in rapid Italian, he turns to us.

"Our man confirms Leonardo is heading out of the mansion with the portfolio."

Damiano's eyes meet mine across the room. "Everything starts now."

I feel Melania trembling beneath my hand. The stakes have just gotten exponentially higher and there's no going back. Leonardo has crossed a line he can never uncross and we've just dragged Melania's brother into a war he may not be prepared to fight.

"Breathe," I murmur to Melania, my thumb tracing small circles against her shoulder. "We've got this."

"What if it's nothing?" she whispers, her voice barely audible. "What if that portfolio is just... receipts for legitimate business dealings? Or tax documents?" Her eyes, those captivating eyes, lift to mine, swimming with doubt. "We might have just risked Leo's life for nothing."

I step closer, positioning myself between her and the others in a subtle gesture of protection. My hand finds the nape of her neck, thumb stroking the soft skin there.

"This was Plan A,piccola," I say, my voice low and steady. "If the portfolio doesn't give us what we need, we move to Plan B."

Her shoulders remain tense under my touch, that brilliant mind of hers no doubt speeding through every worst-case scenario.

"Leo just committed treason against our father," she whispers. "If that portfolio is useless..."

"It won't be," I say with more certainty than I feel. In this business, nothing is guaranteed. But Melania doesn't need my doubts right now—she needs my strength. "Your father is many things but careless isn't one of them. Men like Antonio keep records."

She takes a deep, shuddering breath, leaning almost imperceptibly into my touch. The gesture stirs raging possession in my chest.

"I need you to relax until the portfolio arrives," I tell her. "Stressing about what might or might not be inside won't change its contents."

Damiano clears his throat, reminding us we're not alone. "Alessio's right. We wait." His eyes meet mine over Melania's head, a silent communication passing between us. If the portfolio is empty, we'll need to move to the other plan—the one that might require more blood than documents.

CHAPTER 33

The portfolio lies spread open across Damiano's massive desk, divided into four sections. My fingers trace the columns of numbers, searching for patterns, codes, anything that might link my father to the horrors I know he's committed.

"Nothing in section three either," Enzo mutters, pushing a stack of papers aside.

Three hours. We've been at this for three hours, each of us combing through one section of the portfolio documents, looking for even the smallest thread to pull. My eyes burn from staring at endless columns of numbers and names.

"Maybe we're missing something," I say, my voice hollow as I reach for another document. "Maybe there's a code or?—"

---