Page 116 of Luca
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The momentI walked through the penthouse door, I knew something was wrong.
It was too quiet. There was no baby stuff scattered around. No laughter. No ‘hello daddy’ greeting while Margaret held our infant.Nothing.
My chest tightened and my heart thumped so hard.
Had Marchetti snatched them? The thought turned my blood to ice.
I headed for the kitchen. It was empty. A cold cup of coffee sat on the kitchen island alongside a bottle with curdled milk. Alert shot through me. Margaret hated leaving bottles with milk sitting around. She was paranoid about germs.
“Margaret,” I called out quietly, but I knew in the pit of my stomach she wasn’t here. I retrieved my gun from my holster, and fuck if my hands didn’t shake.
Keeping quiet, I headed for the bedrooms. First, my daughter's. Then ours.
Grandfather’s cane clanked against the marble, then the hardwood floor, and it had the same effect as music in horror movies. Sweat broke out on the back of my neck. Drawers were half open, clothes thrown all over the floor. A single note on the nightstand, the only organized flat surface.
Killing my Da wasn’t the worst thing you’ve done. Neither was killing my mother. Arranging a marriage forourdaughter was bad. Putting her life in danger was worse. But lying to me sealed the deal.
It felt like a blow to my stomach. It stole my fucking breath. First, a deathly stillness fell over me, then burning rage turned my blood to fire. Red crept into my vision and every coherent thought left my brain.
I lost it.
I destroyed every single thing in my penthouse. Our bed. The crib. Furniture. Photos. When every single item laid scattered all over the floor, I moved on to the walls.
Hours later I sat on the edge of the windowsill, my elbows on my knees and fury burning in my chest. There was also worry. My woman and daughter were out there alone. Vulnerable.
The door slammed shut somewhere. I didn’t look behind me. That scent that came to represent family, baby powder, didn’t reach me. I didn’t have to look behind me to know it wasn’t her. It wasn’t my baby.
“Nonno called me,” Cassio said with frustration coloring his voice. In my rage, I forgot about my grandfather. “Don’t tell me you’re renovating.” His voice was right behind me.
I didn’t respond, staring blankly in front of me. “Where are Margaret and the baby?”
Wordlessly, I handed him the note.
She’d left me.
ChapterForty-Four
LUCA
Almost Three Years Later
Luciano Vitale’s home buzzed with life.
Laughter. Screaming children. It all caused this ache in my chest to grow.
Luciano’s daughter, Francesca Aria Vitale, beamed and chattered, grinning and watching her father like he was a God. Fuck if it didn’t make me jealous.
I had split my time between New York and Sicily. Albeit, I preferred to stay away from New York. Too many happy faces and families in my friends were a reminder of my own failure.
It was torture. Pain. A gut-wrenching one. But anger and rage started to overtake those other emotions.
There hadn’t been a single day that passed since Margaret and our daughter disappeared that I hadn’t thought of them. Unlike the first time, she hid better. Taking the passports I had made up for emergencies, she fled the country with our daughter, landed in London and from there, all traces of her ended.
There had been no sign of her or my daughter since. Not even Nico with all his resources could locate them.
Two fucking years. Soon my baby girl would turn three. Another birthday I’d miss.
