Chapter 3 - THE BLOOD-STAINED TICKET
I stared at the crumpled, blood-stained ferry ticket in Vincent’s hand, the world tilting violently on its axis.
“Where is she?” I demanded, the fear for a niece I had never even met overriding every ounce of intimidation I felt toward the man in front of me.
“She’s at a safe house on Blackwood Island,” Vincent said, placing the ticket on the desk. “The ferry is the only way on or off. That ticket was found on one of Isabella’s father’s men an hour ago. My security intercepted him at the docks.”
“Isabella’s father,” I repeated, the bitter taste of betrayal flooding my mouth. “Lorenzo Romano.”
Vincent nodded slowly. “Twenty years ago, Lorenzo didn’t just order the fire that killed your family, Clara. He framed my father for it. He used the chaos to build his own empire.”
“And you were going to marry his daughter?” I asked, my voice rising. “You were going to marry the daughter of the man who slaughtered my family?”
Vincent’s eyes darkened, turning as hard as obsidian.
“I was never going to marry her,” he said, stepping into my space, his physical presence overwhelming. “The engagement was a trap. It was the only way to get Lorenzo comfortable enough to bring his financial ledgers into my house. I was going to dismantle the Romano family tomorrow morning.”
He ran a hand through his dark hair, frustration radiating from him.
“But Isabella accelerating things tonight… attacking you in the dining room… it means they know,” Vincent muttered. “They found out about Mia. They know the Rossi bloodline isn’t dead. And Lorenzo knows if he controls the heir, he controls the city.”
I looked back at the photograph of the little girl. Mia.
She had my sister’s smile. The sister I lost when I was just a teenager.
“We have to get her,” I said, turning back to Vincent. My hands had stopped shaking. A sudden, fierce maternal instinct anchored my soul. “Right now.”
Vincent looked at me, a flicker of profound respect crossing his face.
“It’s dangerous, Clara. The island will be heavily guarded by Romano’s men by now.”
“I don’t care,” I said, stripping off the white lace apron of my maid’s uniform and throwing it onto the leather sofa. “She is my blood. She is a Rossi. I’m not hiding anymore.”
Ten minutes later, we were in the back of a black, armored SUV, tearing through the rain-slicked streets toward the harbor.
Vincent sat beside me, the silent, terrifying Mafia boss once again. He was loading a sleek, black handgun with practiced, chilling precision.
“When we get to the island,” Vincent instructed, his voice cutting through the roar of the engine, “you stay behind me. You do not speak. You do not negotiate.”
“If Lorenzo is there—”
“If Lorenzo is there,” Vincent interrupted, slamming the magazine into the grip, “he is a dead man.”
The SUV screeched to a halt at the private docks.
The rain was a torrential downpour now, whipping off the dark waters of the bay. A sleek, matte-black speedboat was waiting, its engine already humming like a caged beast.
We boarded the boat, and Vincent took the wheel, pushing the throttle forward. We crashed through the violent waves, the salt spray stinging my face.
I gripped the railing, my knuckles white, praying we weren't too late.
Blackwood Island loomed in the distance, a jagged silhouette against the stormy sky. Nestled in the trees was a massive stone cabin, its windows glowing with dim, yellow light.
Vincent cut the engine as we drifted into the private cove, the boat gliding silently against the wooden pier.
He stepped out first, scanning the tree line, his weapon drawn.
He reached back, offering me his hand.
I took it, stepping onto the wet wood.
The silence of the island was unnatural. There were no guards. No lookouts.
“Stay close,” Vincent whispered.
We moved up the winding dirt path toward the cabin. Every shadow looked like an enemy, every snapping branch sounded like a gunshot.
When we reached the heavy oak door of the cabin, Vincent didn't knock. He kicked it open with bone-shattering force.
He swept into the room, his gun raised, ready for a war.
I followed right behind him, my heart in my throat.
The living room was destroyed. Furniture was overturned. Lamps were shattered.
But it was empty.
“Mia!” I screamed, rushing past Vincent into the hallway.
“Clara, wait!” Vincent yelled.
I didn't listen. I tore open the bedroom doors one by one.
Empty. Empty.
I reached the last room at the end of the hall. The nursery.
I pushed the door open.
A small, unmade bed sat in the corner. Toys were scattered across the rug.
But my eyes immediately fell to the center of the room.
Resting on a small wooden chair was a child's drawing.
I walked over on trembling legs and picked it up.
It was a drawing of a little girl holding hands with a tall man in a black suit. Underneath, in messy crayon letters, it read: Uncle Vince and Mia.
Tears spilled over my cheeks.
They took her.
But as I turned the paper over, the tears stopped cold.
Written on the back of the drawing, in elegant, cruel cursive that I recognized instantly from the dinner party invitations I had mailed for three years, were four words.
Check his left pocket.
I froze.
Isabella’s handwriting.
I turned around. Vincent was standing in the doorway, his face pale, staring at the destroyed room.
I walked slowly toward him.
“Clara?” he asked, seeing the look in my eyes.
Without a word, I reached out and slid my hand into the left pocket of his dark wool coat.
My fingers brushed against something hard and metallic.
I pulled it out.
Vincent looked down at my hand, and for the first time since I met him, the fearless Mafia boss looked completely, utterly terrified.
Resting in my palm was a heavy gold signet ring.
May you like
It bore the crest of the Romano family.
“Vincent,” I whispered, the betrayal tasting like ash in my mouth. “Why is Lorenzo Romano’s ring in your pocket?”
