Chapter 71 FIND HER

Chapter 71 FIND HER


Dante shuts the car door quietly, like the sound itself might give something away.

The street is empty. Too empty. The safe house sits where it always does, unremarkable and forgettable. Beige walls. Narrow balconies. A place no one looks at twice. That was the point.

He checks his phone again as he crosses the pavement.

No missed calls. No messages. Still ringing out.

Anya always answers.

He stops in front of the building and stares up at the dark windows. Her light should be on. She hates the dark. Says it makes the walls feel like they lean in.

Dante exhales through his nose and steps inside.

His footsteps echo, controlled and measured. He keeps his hand near his jacket out of habit, eyes scanning corners he has memorized. Third floor. End of the hall. No noise. No television murmuring behind thin walls. No music leaking under doors.

His phone rings once in his hand before he can dial again.

It stops.

He calls back immediately.

Nothing.

That tight, familiar pressure settles low in his chest. The one he learned to respect years ago. Instinct does not scream. It does not need to. It whispers, and Dante has survived by listening.

He knocks once. Firm. Precise.

“Anya.”

Silence.

He knocks again, harder this time. Knuckles sharp against wood.

Nothing.

His jaw tightens. He pulls the keys from his pocket and unlocks the door.

The apartment greets him wrong.

Not trashed. Not ransacked. Worse.

Too clean.

The couch is untouched. The table is clear except for a single glass of water by the sink. Her shoes are still there, Her purse is on the couch

The phone charger still plugged in by the bed.

Dante closes the door behind him and moves fast now. Bedroom. Bathroom. Closet. The window. Locked from the inside. No sign of a struggle. No blood. No overturned furniture.

It takes seconds.

That is all it takes for him to know she did not leave on her own.

He stands in the middle of the apartment and lets the silence settle around him. His pulse stays steady. His breathing even. This is not panic. Panic wastes time.

He pulls his phone out and calls Alessio.

“She is gone,” he says when Alessio answers.

A pause. “Gone how.”

“Gone,” Dante repeats. “The phone is on the kitchen counter. She's not in the apartment”

Another pause. Alessio understands the tone. “I am on my way.”

“No,” Dante says. “Get Russo. Pull the cameras now.”

“I am already calling him.”

Dante ends the call and turns slowly, eyes cataloging every inch of the room again.

Something hard coils in his chest.

He pushes it down.

This is not the moment.

Minutes later, Alessio’s voice comes through the phone again, tighter than before. “We have footage.”

“Send it.”

Dante leaves the apartment without locking the door.

The car engine is still warm when he gets inside. He props his phone against the dashboard and watches the feed load. The camera outside the building flickers once, then stabilizes.

The timestamp makes his jaw clench.

Twenty minutes.

That is all the head start they have.

The footage shows a man pulling outside with a motorbike. Calm. Unrushed. He walks up to the apartment, knocks and waits.

Anya answers the door, Her hair loose around her shoulders. She pauses when she doesn't recognise him and he lunges at her.

The man grabs her arm.

Dante’s fingers curl around the steering wheel.

The footage jumps. The angle changes. Another camera catches the rest. The man drags her toward a black sedan parked too close to the curb. She fights then. Harder than Dante would have expected. She claws at him. Kicks. Her mouth opens in a shout the camera cannot capture.

The man throws her in the backseat.

The door slams.

The sedan pulls away.

Dante ends the video.

The pressure in his chest sharpens into something precise and dangerous. He does not swear. He does not slam his fist into anything.

He simply sits there for a second longer than necessary.

Alessio’s voice cuts through again. “Russo has news.”

“Put him on.”

Russo does not waste time. “Dmitir is dead.”

Dante closes his eyes once.

“How.”

“Shot in the club. Three times. Close range. Russians found out he lifted the drive.”

Dante exhales slowly. Dmitir was always going to die. That was not the surprise.

“They did not get it back,” Russo continues. “They searched him. Tore the place apart. Nothing.”

“Because Anya had it.”

“Yes.”

Silence stretches between them.

Then Russo adds, “Whoever took her knew what to look for.”

Dante opens his eyes. The street outside looks the same. People pass. A woman walks her dog. Somewhere, life continues.

“Find the car,” Dante says.

“We already did,” Alessio cuts in. “Black sedan. Plates switched twice. We have partial footage from a toll camera.”

“Send it.”

Coordinates hit his phone seconds later.

A warehouse district on the edge of the city. Old shipping yards. Poor lighting. Fewer cameras.

Perfect.

Dante starts the engine.

Alessio’s voice tightens. “You want backup.”

“I want answers.”

“You care too much, are you sure you should be the one to go?” Russo says quietly.

Dante understands what Russo means, feelings get people killed.
Dante’s grip tightens again. “I care enough.”

That is the truth of it. He does not allow himself words like fear or loss. He does not indulge in imagining her hurt. He focuses on what he can control.

She is alive.

They would not have taken her if she were not.

That means time.

The car eats up the road as Dante drives. He ignores traffic laws. His mind works through possibilities with brutal efficiency. Who knew her location. Who had motive beyond the Russians. Who would take her alive instead of silencing her.

Not the Russians.

They kill quickly. They do not kidnap distractions.

This is someone else.

Someone patient.

His phone vibrates once.

Alessio again. “We traced the sedan to a private garage. It has not left in twelve minutes.”

“Address.”

Another pin drops.

Dante turns sharply, tires screaming in protest.

The building appears ahead, squat and gray. No signs. No lights. The kind of place meant to disappear into the city’s blind spots.

He slows two streets away and parks.

This is where the restraint cracks.

Not outwardly. Not in anything anyone would notice.

But something inside him shifts. Something cold and absolute.

Anya is not expendable. Not to him.

He thinks of her standing at the door. Calm until the moment she was not. Of the way she looks at him when she thinks he is not watching. Of how she learned his silences faster than anyone ever has.

They should not have touched her.

Dante steps out of the car and checks his weapon.

Then he starts toward the building.

And whoever is inside has already made the worst mistake of their life.