UNEXPECTED

UNEXPECTED


Antonio's POV

I made my final call to my men, commanding them to assist with guarding the Argento compound. My voice was clear, crisp, and sure. I had weeks preparing for this, encrypting all lines of communication, modernizing all surveillance tools, briefing all men on protocol. Still, something did not sit well. Night had informed me of all that had happened, and the atmosphere felt charged with tension, as it does before a storm.

A few hours earlier, I'd listened to Martina's voicemail. She was breathing hard and distraught. "Antonio," she'd said, her voice breaking in a way that tightened my stomach, "I'm sending people to find you. I don't like the silence. Be ready. Please. Just—be careful."

I'd installed a layered security protocol a week ago to render our lines untappable. It worked, perhaps a little too effectively. It also screened out most of the incoming calls. That's why I hadn't taken the call when she phoned. I didn't hear the voicemail until hours afterward. By then, the two men she'd sent had already shown up. Tall, burly, mid-thirties, sharp-eyed. I didn't hesitate—I deployed them to the front lines, to guard the main entrance. My mansion had become a war zone masquerading as a mansion, and every soldier counted.

And despite all my planning, all the guards and cameras and constant vigilance, it broke down in a moment.

I was in my study, the security images encircling me, my cane resting against the edge of my desk. The lights were dimmed, my mind churning over a million scenarios a second. That's when the door exploded inward.

Two large men entered, dragging Serafina between them like she was nothing more than a sack of potatoes. Her arms were tied behind her back, a handkerchief forced into her mouth to silence her. Her eyes locked onto mine. I saw fear. Genuine fear. That gutting, paralyzing fear that only manifests when death is seemingly within reach.

My heart ceased to beat.

The men were Morgan's sons. I recognized them immediately—Marco and Angelo. I'd done my homework. We all had. Night and I had spent weeks gathering information, memorizing every face, every name, every bloodline that posed a threat. These two had been flying under the radar for a while. Now I understood why.

"Come with us," Marco snarled, shoving Serafina so hard she fell to her knees. "Or she dies."

I moved slowly. Deliberately. I grasped my cane and stood. Every action was calculated, every instant a balance between showing obeisance and preparing an attack. My old bones ached, but my mind was keener than ever.

Serafina's sobbing reached my ears. My teeth clenched. She was shaking, her dark curls tousled, her dress torn at the sleeve. Blood smeared the corner of her lip.

Where in blazes were my men?

Something was amiss. My property was never unattended. Never.

I raised my hand in a mock gesture of surrender. My fingers brushed against the butt of the revolver tucked under my jacket.

Marco made the mistake of glancing away. In that moment, I drew my gun and fired.

The bullet ripped into his knee, destroying bone and flesh. He released Serafina with a shriek of agony, falling to the floor. Blood splattered onto the marble tiles.

Angelo reacted fast, but I was faster. Before he could reach for his gun, I neatly shot him through the forehead. He collapsed like a sack of potatoes.

Serafina screamed into the cloth gag, tears dampening her cheeks, her entire body trembling. I stepped to her, grasping her arms and pulling her to her feet.

"It's me. I've got you," I breathed, ripping the gag from her mouth.

Her lips trembled. "Antonio."

"Stay close. We need to move. Now."

I raised my gun as we stepped over the bodies. I kicked Marco's gun out of his groping hands and shot him in his other leg. I did not kill him. Not yet. Let him suffer.

We moved fast, as fast as I could. My limp was worse in the past few months, but adrenaline numbed the pain. The hallway reeked of smoke and gunpowder. I opened the front door, and what I saw turned my blood cold.

Two of my guards—dead. Their bodies were on the steps, necks twisted, eyes open and unseeing.

"Fucking useless," I snarled, dragging Serafina along.

We fled by the east wing, down the curving stone path to the Moretti lands. Every step was peril, every breath tense with vigilance. I knew the cellar in the underground was the safest place for the time being. Reinforced steel doors. Concrete walls. Emergency rations. I'd built it years ago, in the event of a siege.

We reached the ancient garden gate that led into the cellar stairs. My hand trembled as I opened the hidden catch and pushed the steel door open.

"In," I commanded. "Now."

Serafina descended the stone stairs first, and I followed, keeping watch behind us. As I shut the door, headlights crossed the clearing.

A black van.

I pulled my gun.

Five men emerged. All of them wearing black tactical gear. My first instinct was to fire, but then I saw it—the insignia stitched onto their jackets. A notched wolf's fang.

My men. The men I'd trained myself. Deadly, ruthless, loyal.

"What the hell?" I snarled. "What are you doing here?"

But they didn't respond.

They attacked.

Before I could fire, one of them tackled me. My gun flew out of my hand, spinning across the stone floor. I fought, but one of them stomped a boot onto my wrist. I heard the break.

Pain screamed through my system.

"No!" Serafina shrieked, kicking and punching wildly. One of them grabbed her from behind, pressing a knife to her throat. Her screams were suddenly cut off.

"Don't hurt her!" I roared, clutching my broken wrist.

"Get the old guy in the van," one of them shouted.

I struggled. I kicked. I bit. But I was outnumbered and in pain. They threw me into the back of the van like trash, then pushed Serafina in beside me. The doors shut.

She collapsed into me, crying.

"I've got you," I muttered, over and over, though I wasn't so sure anymore.

The van sputtered to life. I looked around the dark interior, locking eyes with each man. They weren't strangers. I knew them all. Men I'd trained. Men I'd trusted.

Betrayal bubbled in my gut.

They took us a great distance. Hours maybe. Nobody spoke.

When the doors finally opened again, night had descended, and the sky was black. We were dragged outside, thrown onto cold concrete. I smelled the sea. Salt. Rust. Oil.

A warehouse.

They tied us to chairs in the center of the empty floor. Zip ties dug into my wrists. My broken hand throbbed. Serafina was tied beside me, still crying silently.

And then they
left.

No words.

Just silence.

And darkness.

And questions that would lead to nothing but more blood.