Page 51 of Savage Reckoning
The Bentley’sengine is a low growl that mirrors the violence coiling in my gut. Every mile that separates me from my house is an insult. Every second, a liability.
Alessandro’s words replay in the silent cabin, sharp as glass. “She is your blind spot, Nicolás. You have lost focus. This obsession will be your downfall.” He wasn’t wrong. Isabel played me. She dangled the Vancouver intel—a fabrication so obvious in hindsight—and I took the bait. I, who prided myself on seeing every angle, on knowing every move before it was made, walked into a distraction designed for one purpose: to get me away from Lea.
The anger isn’t for Isabel, though she will pay. It’s a cold fury directed at myself. I gave my enemy an opening. I prioritized the turbulent, intoxicating chaos of my dynamic with Lea over the hard logic of the game. I let a flicker of something I refuse to name cloud my judgment, and in this world, a moment’s distraction is a fatal error.
As the private road to the house comes into view, I see our men running around. My foot presses harder on the accelerator.
I bring the car to a hard stop at the main entrance; the tires protesting on the cobblestone. Blake is there before the engine is off, his face a stiff, professional veneer. He’s flanked by two of Alessandro’s men, their suits unable to hide the extra heavy hardware underneath.
“Report,” I bark, stepping out of the car. The cool night air feels charged.
“Perimeter breach, sir. East fence,” Blake says, his voice clipped. “A small, deliberate fire at the pump house. A diversion. We had it contained within seven minutes. The full sweep of the grounds is complete. The lockdown was effective. All personnel are accounted for.”
His report is a model of control restored, but every word grates. A diversion. Sophisticated. My eyes survey the house, a fortress that has been tested. An icy dread, alien and unwelcome, settles deep in my chest.
“Where is she?” My voice is flat.
Blake misreads the calm. “Secure, sir. She’s been in the master bedroom all day.”
Without another word, I move past Blake, my strides devouring the distance to the front door, the men scrambling to keep pace behind me. My focus is a laser aimed at the top floor, at the master suite.
I take the grand staircase two steps at a time, the rush of blood deafening. My mind is a storm of possibilities. Did she run? Didshe conspire with Isabel? Was her passionate surrender all a final, masterful act? The thought is poison in my veins.
I burst through the double doors of the master suite, and the world stops.
The room is empty. However, instead of finding Lea in my bedroom, I see a scene of total chaos. A heavy bedside lamp is overturned, its shade crushed. Drawers are pulled out, their contents—silk and lace I bought for her—spilling onto the floor like entrails. The sheets are torn and twisted. A vase of white roses lies shattered near the window, water pooling on the dark wood amidst the scattered petals.
This is a message. It screams of a struggle, a forced abduction.
In that instant, any suspicion of her complicity evaporates, incinerated by a rage so absolute it feels like ice. This is Moretti’s signature all over it: crude, loud, and devoid of subtlety.
Her confession of loyalty, her claim that she chose to belong to me—it wasn’t a lie. It was the truth, ripped from her by the fear of what lay outside my protection. A protection I failed to provide. My self-directed anger transforms, crystallizing into a lethal point of focus.
Dante Moretti has violated my home. He has put his hands on what is mine.
The insult is total. The fury is pure. This is no longer business. This is a personal war. The guilt over my distraction, over Alessandro’s warning, now fuels a fire that will burn Moretti’s world to the ground.
I pull out my phone, my movements deliberate. The screen illuminates my face in the dim, violated room. I dial Alessandro’s private number. He answers on the first ring.
No preamble.
“He has her,” I state, my voice a low, steady monotone. “Moretti came into my house and took her.”
A beat of silence on the other end as Alessandro processes the magnitude of the transgression. He understands that this is not a setback. It’s a fundamental shift.
“This is an act of war,” I continue. “I am burning his entire operation to the ground. Every front, every shell corporation, every political ally. I want nothing left but ashes. I need everything you have.”
Alessandro’s voice, when it comes, is as cold and somber as my own. “You have it. The council will be convened. The accounts will be opened. Whatever you need, Nicolás. Burn him down.”
I end the call and shift my focus to Blake hovering in the doorway, his face pale. He has overheard enough. He opens his mouth to speak.
“Get out,” I command, my voice a low command that cracks like a whip.
He wisely retreats, pulling the doors shut, leaving me alone in the desecrated space. I walk to the shattered vase, my shoe crunching on the glass. I stoop and pick up a single white rose petal. It’s soft and bruised. A vow forms in the silent fury of my heart. I will find her. I will bring her back. And I will deliver a retribution so absolute that the name Moretti will be spoken only as a cautionary tale.
My mind is already a whirlwind of tactical considerations. The sudden vibration of my phone against my palm is a jarring intrusion.
BLOCKED CALLER.
