Page 15 of Angelo's Vengeance

“A man who owes me more than one.” His lips curled into a humorless smile. “And he’s very good at finding things people want to keep hidden.”

I nodded once. “Good. We hit every angle until we have something solid.”

No one doubted what would happen when we did. There would be no negotiations, nocompromises, only fire and blood. We would come home with Theodosia. Period.

As the jet sped through the night toward our destination, I stared out the window, my mind playing out every possible scenario. No matter how this ended, I knew one thing for sure—whoever had taken Theo was about to learn they had made a mistake of biblical proportions.

My stomach twisted at the thought that she might have been vulnerable because we had allowed this entire marriage to twist in the wind. I knew she didn’t want it either, but maybe it was time to reconsider our positions. Maybe our lives didn’t need to change for a piece of paper. Maybe if it was the protection of a name, I could give her that.

I leaned back against the leather seat and closed my eyes, knowing that sleep would be hard to find in the coming days. I just hoped we’d find her quickly and unharmed. We didn’t speak of them, but I knew that her brothers held some of the same fears I did. Unspeakable things could be happening. Minutes were critical. Hours? Fuck … anything could happen.

CHAPTER 11

THEODOSIA

Darkness pressedagainst the edges of my mind, thick and suffocating, a heavy fog that refused to lift. My head pounded, a dull throb pulsing behind my temples, and my tongue felt like sandpaper in my mouth. I inhaled sharply, expecting the familiar scent of expensive perfume and leather upholstery, but instead, the air was damp, thick with mildew, and something earthier—dirt.

My eyes flew open, panic surging through me like an electric current. My pulse thundered in my ears as I tried to move, but my limbs were sluggish, my body refusing to cooperate. I squeezed my eyes shut and forced myself to take a slow, measured breath.Think, Theo. What was the last thing I remembered?

I had been at that restaurant meeting with Carlotta Santelli, and she had set me up. The realization hit me like a gut punch, leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. I had walked into that meeting with my usual bravado, decked out in a perfectly tailored jumpsuit and heels that cost more than most people’s rent, thinking I was meeting with Bassiano Torsiello. Instead, I got Carlotta. Admittedly, I’d been cocky, believing I could handle whatever she threw at me. I’d thought it was a public place. What was the worst that could happen? I should have known better. After growing up the way I had, with the father I had? I felt like an absolute idiot. Women weren’t ever safe. I knew that.

It felt like I’d been drugged. I tried to do a quick inventory. My clothes were intact, buttoned, and fastened. A giant plus. Okay. Things could be way worse. I tried to shake off the fog that permeated the edges of my consciousness, wrapping everything in cotton.

And then there was that name. Salvatore Renzetti.

The moment she mentioned him,something inside me tensed. Carlotta had smiled—a cold, knowing smile—and told me he wanted me. That wasn’t a good sign. New players in New York signaled someone seeking leverage, which didn’t bode well for me. Women were chess pieces in the underbelly of the criminal world. Alliances needed to be made and forged. My brother and his friends might like to think that they’d turned the Commission into something better, but I was still bitter about the part I had to play. Angelo felt the same, and so I felt safe knowing that he hated the shackles of the blood oath as much as I did. It was a commonality that we had — one of the few.

Men like Renzetti didn’t want women the way normal men did. If Renzetti was new to the New York scene, he was coming in empty-handed. He was desperate, which wasn’t good news. If this was his idea of wanting me, then it meant possession, control, and worse, if this cell was anything to go by.

I struggled to sit up, wincing as my palms pressed against the rough ground. A cold, damp sensation spread through my fingers, and I recoiled, staring down at my hands in horror. My manicured nails were caked withdirt. My clothes—my gorgeous, custom-designed jumpsuit—was stained and wrinkled, the once-crisp fabric now tainted by grime.

A strangled noise escaped my throat, caught between a whimper and a growl.

“Of all the goddamn things,” I muttered, brushing frantically at the fabric as if that would somehow erase the filth. “Kidnap me, threaten me, whatever, but ruin my outfit? Unforgivable.”

The absurdity of my own words nearly made me laugh. Nearly. Because beneath the irritation, beneath the dramatic outrage, fear coiled tight in my stomach. It was easier to focus on the state of my clothes than on the fact that I had no idea where I was or what Renzetti had planned for me.

I forced myself to take in my surroundings, setting my fashion crisis aside for the moment. The room was small, barely large enough for me to stretch fully. The walls were rough, composed of crumbling concrete, streaked with moisture and patches of sediment. The floor was uneven, made of packed dirt, and the scent of damp earth lingered in the air. There were no windows, only a heavy metal door reinforced with iron bars, reminiscentof an old prison cell. Italy was big on old architecture, so I could still be somewhere in Florence, but the dampness was throwing me off. The Mediterranean was drier than this moldy dampness that filled my nose.

I exhaled slowly, willing my heartbeat to steady.

I pushed myself upright, brushing off more dirt from my outfit with a huff. “Absolutely unacceptable,” I muttered under my breath before turning my attention to the door. I staggered to my feet, my legs shaky, and took a step toward it. The moment I did, I caught movement on the other side.

A shadow shifted, then settled, as if whoever was there had been waiting for me to notice them.

My stomach twisted. I squared my shoulders, running a hand through my hair, even though I was sure it looked like a disaster. Presentation was everything, even in a damp prison cell — especially in a damp prison cell.

“Hey,” I called out, my voice only slightly shaky. “Not that I don’t appreciate the hospitality, but this room could really use a serious makeover. Have you ever heard of interiordecorating? Maybe some throw pillows or a rug?” Silence. “No? Okay. Tough crowd.”

I stepped closer, peering through the bars. The dim lighting outside the cell barely illuminated my captor, but I could discern the broad shape of a man standing just beyond reach, arms crossed. I felt his gaze, even if I couldn’t see his face clearly.

“Well, this is awkward,” I said, shifting my weight onto one hip. “Usually, when a lady finds herself locked in a cell, her captor at least has the decency to introduce himself. Do you have a name, big guy?”

Nothing.

I huffed out a breath. “Silent type, huh? I bet you’re great at parties.”

The lack of response sent a fresh wave of unease through me. Not that I would let him see it. I had spent years perfecting the art of deflection, masking my fear with humor and attitude. It had always been my shield, my armor. I wasn’t about to abandon it now. I had honed it around my father and learned it well. The mafia world was, to me, a terrifying place to be avoided at all costs. Not that I had a choice, of course. I’d tried hard to learn everything I could and adopt a devil-may-careattitude instead. I learned some self-defense and kept my nightmares to myself. I googled. Bestie needed a body disposal? Sure. I could do that. I might have had nightmares, but I was capable. I was strong.

---