Chapter 27: Worried

Alessandro

I knelt in the dirty street, the evidence of Bianca's violent struggle clutched in my hands. Her shattered phone. The torn, delicate silver necklace I'd given her just days ago. The smear of blood on the phone case so small, yet so vast in its implication.

This wasn't just a business problem anymore. This was personal. This was primal. Lorenzo Vitale hadn't just tried to hurt my interests; he had targeted the one raw, unprotected piece of my soul.

The guilt was a physical weight, crushing the air from my lungs. I'd failed her. I'd respected her boundaries, given her space, and in doing so, had left her vulnerable to the monsters my family had created. Every instinct had screamed at me to keep her close, to lock her away somewhere safe, to tell her the full extent of the danger. But I'd been trying to be the man she deserved—honorable, trusting.

What a spectacular miscalculation.

I forced myself up, shaking off the paralyzing guilt. Guilt was unproductive. Guilt was for later, for the long nights when this was over and she was safe. Right now, rage was power.

My phone rang. Marco.

"We've got something," he stated, his voice tight and professional. "Traffic camera caught a black sedan leaving the area twenty-eight minutes ago. Plates match a shell company Vitale uses for his dirtier operations. Heading south, toward the warehouse district."

My mind immediately mapped the area. The warehouse district was a sprawling maze of abandoned buildings and forgotten industrial complexes—perfect for making someone disappear.

"How many locations?" I demanded.

"Five possibilities. I'm sending coordinates now."

The locations pinged through almost instantly. I was already moving, back in the SUV, the engine roaring to life as I punched the accelerator. The tires screamed against asphalt as I tore through the streets, pushing the vehicle beyond its limits. Traffic laws meant nothing. Caution meant nothing. Only Bianca mattered.

I called my father, not for permission, but for confirmation. For resources.

"I'm going after her. Now," I said without preamble.

"Alessandro," my father's voice, usually a cold steel trap of control, sounded strained. Worried. "Marco briefed me on the situation. We're assembling a team—proper tactical support. You can't go in alone. Vitale's men will be armed and expecting trouble."

"I don't care what they're expecting."

"Son, listen to me..."

"She means everything," I confessed, the words tearing through the wall I'd spent a lifetime building. The admission felt like ripping open my chest. " I failed her. I knew Vitale was unstable, I knew he was dangerous, and I still let her out of my sight. I'm not waiting for a tactical briefing while she's bleeding in some concrete room, wondering if anyone's coming for her."

The silence on the line was heavy, loaded with unspoken understanding. My father, the ruthless founder of the DeSanti empire, understood the concept of primal debt. He understood what it meant when a man's woman was taken.

"The second warehouse," he said finally, his voice dropping into the low, tactical register I recognized from my childhood the voice he used when teaching me to hunt, to fight, to kill if necessary. "Southside industrial park, near the old shipping docks. It's the most isolated, the hardest to access from main roads. Multiple exit points, but only one viable entrance. It's where I would take someone if I wanted privacy. If I wanted time."

The implication hung in the air like poison.

"Marco's team is mobilizing now," he continued. "They'll have tactical gear, proper weaponry. They're fifteen minutes out. Wait for them."

"No," I said, the word emerging as cold certainty replacing hysteria.

"Alessandro—"

"Fifteen minutes is forever when someone is hurt. When someone is scared. When someone is wondering if anyone cares enough to come save them." My voice cracked slightly on the last words. "I won't let her think, even for a second, that she's alone in this."

"You're going in without backup. Without proper weapons—"

"I'm going in because I have to, every second I wait is another second she's terrified." I paused, then added quietly, "You'd do the same for Mother."

Another heavy silence. Then, reluctantly: "There's a lockbox in the hidden compartment under the driver's seat. Code is your mother's birthday. Take the Glock. And Alessandro? Don't get yourself killed. That girl needs you alive, not martyred."

"I know," I said, then ended the call.

I found the lockbox exactly where he'd said, the compartment releasing with a soft click. Inside: a Glock 19, two spare magazines, and a tactical knife. My father's emergency kit, standard in every family vehicle. I checked the gun with practiced efficiency loaded, safety on, ready.

The warehouse loomed ahead, a dark silhouette against the night sky. The building looked monolithic, silent, indifferent—perfect for the kind of horrors Vitale specialized in.

I parked two blocks away, killing the lights. I moved like a ghost through the shadows, relying on training my father had drilled into me since childhood: If you can't be everywhere, be fast. If you can't be fast, be smart. If you can't be smart, be ruthless.

I reached the perimeter, pressing against the corrugated metal wall. Silence. Then, a low, guttural voice from inside, barely audible:

"Boss says to sit tight. Wait for orders."

My entire body went rigid. They were here. She was here.

I texted Marco: Second warehouse. I'm going in. Send backup now.

His reply was immediate: ETA twelve minutes. WAIT FOR US.

Twelve minutes. Seven hundred twenty seconds. Long enough for them to panic. Long enough for Vitale to do something irreversible.

I clicked the safety off the Glock.

I'm coming, Bianca, I thought, the silent vow the only prayer I had left. Hold on. I won't fail you again.

Then I moved toward the entrance, ready to burn the world down to get her back.