Page 157 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince
"The old butler from her home…said his name was Renato and he had known her since she was a baby."
The name drops like a stone into water.
"Where?" I ask.
"They were headed toward the old iron gate on the southern perimeter."
I don’t wait to hear the rest.
I shove past him and head for the perimeter path, racing through the side hall at full speed.
My boots hammer the tile, echoing up the corridor like cannon fire.
One of the guards stationed near the greenhouse tries to flag me down, but I do not stop.
The garden is ahead, the low curve of the fig tree visible just beyond the final hedge.
The gate is open.
Two guards are already there, weapons drawn, searching the hedgerow.
Gianna is nowhere.
There is a deep disturbance in the gravel, not wide, but fresh.
A scuffle.
Footprints too small for the men who patrol this wing.
My voice cracks through the still air before I can control it.
"Where is she?"
The guard nearest me swallows hard, adjusting his grip on the stock of his weapon.
"She was with him. We thought he had clearance."
I turn, alerting more men on the way, commanding that they meet me in the war room.
Marco is already calling for the dogs, the surveillance backups, the drone sweeps.
Once he’s finished, he joins me and the others.
The map is already on the table, its borders marked in red and silver pins: last known locations of the car, where Renato was last seen, Gianna’s whereabouts over the last few days.
The estate guards are mobilizing along the old perimeter lines.
The search teams have begun combing the outer orchards and the maintenance road leading to the drainage aqueduct.
And yet, hours later, nothing has turned up.
She is gone.
And I cannot afford the luxury of rage.
I lean my palms against the edge of the table and stare at the southern coastline, tracing it from Nuova Speranza down to Salerno and further into the quiet ports where Rossi influence used to run deep beneath official trade routes.
The sea used to carry more than cargo.
