Page 60 of Made for Vengeance

"Why?"

He glanced at me, his dark eyes unreadable. "Because some truths are better heard than told."

Cryptic bastard.

We reached a door at the end of the hallway, heavy oak with intricate carvings. Rafe opened it, revealing a spacious office that matched the grandeur of the rest of the house. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined one wall, filled with leather-bound volumes. A massive desk dominated the center of the room, its surface neat and organized. Large windows overlookedmanicured gardens and, in the distance, what looked like a small lake.

"Wait here," Rafe said, moving to a side door I hadn't noticed initially. "The meeting will start in a few minutes. You can listen through this door, but do not open it. Do not make a sound. Understand?"

I nodded, curiosity overriding defiance for the moment.

"Good." He checked his watch again. "I'll return when it's over."

He left through the main door, closing it firmly behind him. I heard the lock engage—not a prisoner in my room, but still a prisoner.

I explored the office, looking for anything that might help me understand my situation better—or, ideally, escape it. The desk drawers were locked. The computer required a password. The phone line was dead.

Rafe Conti was nothing if not thorough.

I moved to the windows, assessing them as potential exits. They were large but, like the ones in my room, sealed shut and reinforced. The view they offered was tantalizing—freedom just beyond the glass, visible but untouchable.

The sound of voices drew my attention to the side door Rafe had indicated. I moved closer, pressing my ear against the wood.

"—appreciate you meeting on such short notice," a male voice was saying. Not Rafe's, but similar in tone—confident, controlled, with that same hint of an accent I couldn't quite place.

"Let's skip the pleasantries," another voice replied—older, gruffer, with a distinct Boston Irish lilt that made my blood freeze in my veins. "We both know why we're here."

My father.

Patrick O'Sullivan was in the next room.

My heart rate doubled, adrenaline flooding my system. My father was here. In the Conti estate. Presumably to negotiate my release. To demand my return.

To save me.

I pressed closer to the door, straining to hear every word.

"The situation with the docks has become untenable," my father continued. "Your people are interfering with shipments that have moved through our territory for decades."

"Your territory?" A third voice—younger, sharper. "Last I checked, the port was neutral ground. Has been since the agreement of '97."

"An agreement your family has conveniently forgotten," my father snapped. "Three of our containers were seized last month. Five of my men arrested. That's not neutral ground, that's a declaration of war."

"A misunderstanding," the first voice said smoothly. "One we're prepared to rectify, with appropriate compensation."

"Compensation?" My father laughed, a harsh sound devoid of humor. "You think money fixes this?"

"Not money," the voice replied. "Territory. Specifically, Graven Hill and the surrounding areas. Full control, no questions asked, no interference from our side."

There was a pause, the silence heavy with implication. Graven Hill was a notorious neighborhood on the edge of the city—high crime, high poverty, but strategically valuable for distribution routes.

"And in exchange?" my father asked, his voice cautious now.

"In exchange, we forget about the warehouse your people bombed. We forget about Giovanni Abate, who your son Sean turned against us. We forget about the judge you bought to block our casino license."

Another pause, longer this time.

"That's quite a list of grievances," my father said finally. "And quite a generous offer to resolve them. What's the catch, Dante?"

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