Page 87 of The Bonventi War
The foyer is breathtaking—soaring ceilings with a massive crystal chandelier, marble floors, and a sweeping staircase thatcurves elegantly to the second floor. Renaissance-style paintings hang on the walls, and I recognize several of them.
"Something tells me these aren't reproductions," I say, stopping to examine one.
"No," Gio says simply, guiding me forward with his hand on the small of my back.
We pass a billiard room, a sitting area, and walk through a formal living room with plush furniture that looks barely used. Then we pass a study lined with leather-bound books. Everything is immaculate, a perfect blend of old-world charm and modern luxury.
Gio leads me into his kitchen, and it's larger than my entire apartment was. Gleaming copper pots hang above a massive island with a marble countertop. Two industrial-sized refrigerators stand side by side, and a twelve-burner gas range dominates one wall. The cabinetry is custom, hand-carved mahogany with subtle gold accents. Floor-to-ceiling windows look out onto a terrace and pool area beautifully lit in the night.
"Take a seat," Gio says, pulling out one of the leather-upholstered barstools at the island.
I perch on the edge, feeling out of place. Gio fills a crystal glass with water from a dispenser in the refrigerator door and places it in front of me.
"Here," he says, his tone warm. "Your throat must be raw."
I sip the water gratefully, watching as Gio pulls out his phone and steps a few feet away.
He presses it to his ear, turns away, and talks sternly in a low tone into the phone. After a few minutes, he hangs up, and takes my hands in his.
"It was the Russians," he says without hesitation. "A contact at the fire department found accelerants. Multiple points of origin. Professional job."
My stomach drops. "You're sure?"
"Who else would it be?" Gio's jaw tightens. "It was deliberate, Raven. They're sending a message."
I stare out the window. "I'm starting to really fucking hate them."
Gio nods in approval.
"I'm going to make them pay. Every last one of them."
He squeezes my hands, drawing my attention back to his face.
"If that gallery was your mother's dream," he continues, "I'll make sure it comes back bigger and better than ever. But what's been destroyed..." He shakes his head. "I can't bring back what's gone. But I can ensure they never touch anything you love again."
I realize now what I'm seeing in his eyes isn't just anger—it's guilt. He blames himself for not preventing this.
"It's not your fault," I say.
"I should have had better security on the building after the kidnapping. 24/7 surveillance."
"You couldn't have known they'd do this." I reach up to touch his face. "None of this is your fault."
He catches my wrist, pressing a kiss to my palm. "Either way. Let's rest now," he pauses, "Tomorrow, I'm tearing open Chicago and bringing the wrath of hell to those motherfuckers."
36
GIO
Ipace across the concrete floor, staring at the man tied to a metal chair in the center of the room, a black hood covering his head. Heavy rope binds his wrists to the armrests, ankles secured to the legs of the chair. He's been making pathetic whimpering sounds for the past twenty minutes. It's getting on my fucking nerves.
Two of my men flank him, waiting for my signal. Blood has already soaked through the man's shirt from earlier persuasion techniques. Nothing serious—yet.
I stop directly in front of him and nod to one of my associates.
"Take it off."
He yanks the hood from the man's head. Light hits his face, and he blinks rapidly, disoriented. His left eye is swollen shut, dried blood caked around his split lip. He's young—early twenties, maybe—with the typical Eastern European features of our Russian friends. Just a foot soldier. But useful nonetheless.
