Page 18 of Angelo's Vengeance

Remo, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke. "What about the auction guests? If they’re coming to buy?—"

"Then they’ll die alongside him," I said flatly. "Every last one, but Theo first. If other women are held, we’ll try to get them too.”

“Any thoughts about the why?” Bacco asked. “Renzetti grabbed her because?”

It bothered me, too. If he had grabbed her and married her, maybe it would have made a little more sense—forcing an alliance with the Anthakos. They would form a powerful partnership to leverage their smuggling and shipping enterprises if he lived long enough. If he could actually pull it off, he might think that he could also secure a seat with the Commission. Perhaps he would have thought he’d be doing me a favor, and I’d thank him for it. But auctioning her off? That was stupid.

“We must be missing something. This feels like a fuck you. He has to know that treating her this way would be utterly insulting.”Bacco had his knife back out, swirling around his knuckles, and I wanted to smack him in the face

“Who is this guy? I mean, yeah, we killed his cousin or whatever, but he deserved it.” Vaso rubbed the back of his neck. “Are we missing the connection?”

“I’ll get on it and see if I can find anything that Veronica has missed. I’m sure that she is looking as we speak.” Kostas reached for his computer.

“You’re right, Bacco. This grab is personal. Whatever the reason was behind it. He’s going to pay for it.”

Silence fell. The kind that came with understanding. I knew everyone felt the same — off-kilter and unsure, with a sick sense of rage building behind it. Normally, our world existed in shades of grey. The Commission had clear lines within which we operated, doing some bad things to bad people, but for the most part, we kept that to those who deserved it. We definitely didn’t go around kidnapping innocent women.

I pulled out my gun, checking the magazine before snapping it back into place. I glanced over my shoulder at the soldiers we’dbrought along, wondering if we brought enough. Hopefully, Maxim and Conall came through for us.

"We do this fast," I continued. "We do it loud. And when it’s done, there won’t be enough left of Renzetti to fill a fucking shoebox."

Kostas exhaled sharply, his eyes gleaming with vengeance. "I like the sound of that."

I met Ilias’s gaze. "We will get her back. We’ll put him in the ground. And we’ll make sure everyone knows what happens when they touch what’s ours."

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his fists flexing. "Damn right."

The cabin fell into a grim, focused silence. Weapons were checked, plans were made, and by the time the pilot confirmed our descent into New Orleans, one thing was certain.

Renzetti had made a mistake.

And I was going to make damn sure it was his last.

CHAPTER 13

THEODOSIA

Theodosia

The walls were sweating.

Okay, maybe not literally, but that’s how it felt. The dampness soaked through the fabric of my jumpsuit—the one I had carefully paired with black suede Santoni heels that morning. A morning that now felt like it belonged to another life. Back when I still had clean clothes, breathable air, and an intact sense of self-preservation. Back before, Carlotta Santelli smiled sweetly over tea and handed me over like a party favor.

"God, I knew she was a nightmare,” I muttered to myself, pacing the six-by-eight cell like a caged animal in couture. If youcould even call it couture anymore. My jumpsuit was streaked with dirt, my heels were stained beyond redemption, and I was pretty sure something had died in the far corner of the room. It smelled like damp despair and rat droppings.

"Hey! Mustache!" I called out for the eighth time today. "You know, you could at least pretend I’m a person. Say hi. Offer me a drink. Maybe a snack? I’d murder someone for an espresso.” Neither was a lie. I was starving and thirsty.

Silence. As usual.

I flopped down onto the grimy cot with a groan, kicking off one shoe to inspect it—my poor baby. Scuffed suede and some of the little rhinestones had come off. Santino would weep. These were the Sibille pumps, and I loved them with their shiny little constellations of stones. They made my feet sparkle. When I wore them, they brought me joy.

Of all the things I could focus on right now, I was furious about my clothes and shoes. It was easier to rage about fashion than to confront the dread curling in my stomach. The only thing I knew for sure? If this wereSalvatore Renzetti’s version of wooing, I’d rather date a sewer rat.

He hadn’t revealed himself yet, but the air reeked of evil. Carlotta had spoken his name with the kind of smirk typically reserved for someone you didn’t particularly care for. She’d set me up—smiling all the while—and now I was the one trapped in some horror-movie version of a prison cell.

I put my ruined pump back on and stood, pacing once more. I had searched the room a hundred times, tracing every crack in the wall and checking every loose piece of wood or rusted metal. Nothing. No window, no tools, no leverage.

But I still had pins in my hair.

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