Chapter 228: You married the wrong girl

The black transport van tore through the desolate industrial district, its heavy tires kicking up gravel and old dust as it fishtailed around a sharp corner near the abandoned shipping docks. Inside the cramped, suffocating metal cargo hold, Elisa pressed her back hard against the reinforced steel wall, her chest heaving as she tried to regulate her breathing. Her mind raced with a desperate, frantic energy. She was trapped, completely cut off from the world, with no phone, no guards, and no way to signal where she was.

Vicenzo turned around from the passenger seat, his face twisted into a grotesque, mocking smile as he looked back through the wire-mesh partition separating the cab from the back.

"You look a little pale, little bird," Vicenzo taunted, his voice dripping with condescension. "Where is that fiery, independent spirit you showed back at the spa? The sharp tongue that always kept Lockhart entertained?"

Elisa glared at him through the dim, flickering light filtering through the grime-covered windows. "You're making a terrible mistake," she spat, her voice steady despite the adrenaline pumping through her veins. "Ridge isn't just some businessman you can push around. When he catches you,and he will catch you..he won't just kill you. He'll make you beg for it."

Vicenzo let out a harsh, barking laugh, shaking his head. "Oh, Elisa. That's the part you still don't understand. Ridge doesn't control this city; illusion does. For years, your precious husband has walked around thinking he’s untouchable, hiding behind the Lockhart name, hoarding wealth built on the backs of men my father trusted and bled for. Do you have any idea what it’s like to watch your family get erased from the history books while a bunch of fools who think they are more aware of the law than anyone sit on the throne?"

Elisa frowned, her sharp intellect cutting right through his rant. "Your father……. Must be the treasurer Arthur always spoke about." she realized aloud, her eyes narrowing. "Then you must be Vicenzo, The son of man who embezzled millions from the Lockharts and the one who murdered a federal warder before disappearing into the air."

Vicenzo’s smile vanished instantly, replaced by a dark, dangerous scowl. "Ah, so the singer does have time to read the newspapers. Impressive. But knowing my name won't save you, and it certainly won't save your husband when he walks straight into the trap I’ve laid out for him at the old dry docks."

"You think he's going to walk into a trap alone?" Elisa challenged, a brave facade masking her internal terror. "Ridge has an army. He has contacts you can't even dream of touching."

"An army?" Vicenzo mocked, leaning back against his seat with a wave of his hand. "Let him bring an army. By the time they figure out which warehouse we're parked in, you'll already be halfway across the ocean on a cargo freighter, and Lockhart will be standing in a pool of his own regret."

Across the cabin, one of the masked enforcers shifted uncomfortably, eyeing Vicenzo through the dim light.

"Boss... we shouldn't waste time talking to her. The perimeter scanners picked up a civilian vehicle tailing us three blocks back. It’s moving fast. Too fast."

Vicenzo’s expression hardened. "Tailing us? Who? Local police?"

"Don't think so," the enforcer muttered, checking the magazine of his submachine gun. "The plates are clean, but the driving style... it's aggressive. Like a professional."

Vicenzo turned his head back around, staring out the front windshield into the empty concrete roads of the industrial yard ahead. "Step on it, Lion. Let’s get to the docks before we have company."

Miles behind them, Matteo pushed the sedan to its absolute mechanical limit.

The engine screamed in protest as he slammed his foot down on the accelerator, taking a hairpin turn on two wheels. Inside the car, the dashboard receiver was silent now that the primary bug had been destroyed, but Matteo didn't need a live audio feed. He had memorized the telemetry data from the moment the red light had flashed at the spa. He knew the geography of these old shipping yards better than the men who built them.

"Stupido americano," Matteo muttered to himself in a low, gravelly rumble, his hands locked tightly around the steering wheel like iron clamps. "Driving a heavy van through the industrial zone like a tourist. Does he think he can hide from a ghost?"

He reached into his jacket pocket with one hand, pulling out a heavy, matte-black Beretta pistol. He checked the chamber with a practiced, mechanical click, sliding the weapon back into his shoulder holster before shifting gears with aggressive precision.

He wasn't waiting for Ridge. He wasn't waiting for Rafaele’s syndicate cleaners. If someone was going to rescue the boss's redhead mistress, it was going to be the man who actually knew how to handle a massacre without calling a press conference first.

Meanwhile, inside the bulletproof cabin of his speeding town car, Ridge was losing his mind.

The dead GPS screen on his dashboard mocked him with its blank, gray interface. He had dialed Rafaele’s private frequency four times in the last two minutes, his thumb trembling slightly as he stared at the desolate highway stretching out before him.

The phone connected on the first ring.

"Lockhart," Rafaele’s voice came through the speaker, calm and steady as ever. "If you call me one more time to ask if she is breathing, I am going to hang up. My men have eyes on the northern perimeter. The van just crossed into Sector 4,the old dry docks near the bay."

"He destroyed the bug, Rafaele!" Ridge roared, his voice cracking with a terrifying mix of fury and raw, unbearable fear. "He knows we tracked him! What if he realizes it's a setup and decides to use her as leverage? What if he doesn't wait for us to arrive?"

"He won't," Rafaele replied with absolute, unshakable coldness. "Because narcissists like Rick Darco-Vicenzo Ricardo Jordan do not take hostages when they want revenge,they want an audience. He wants you to see it. He wants you to walk into that warehouse on your knees so he can crush you where you stand. Play into his ego, Ridge. Let him think he has won until the very second my men seal the exits."

"And if your men are even one second too late..." Ridge whispered, his voice dropping into a dark, lethal threat, "I swear to you, the Lockhart empire will be charged for yours and your men's murder."

"Save your threats for Vicenzo, my friend," Rafaele said softly before the line clicked dead.

Ridge slammed his hand against the steering wheel, the horn blaring a harsh, continuous note into the empty night air. He floored the gas pedal, the town car surging forward like a rocket, eating up the asphalt as he raced toward the docks where his entire world was hanging by a thread.

Back inside the transport van, the vehicle lurched violently to a halt, tires screeching against the damp, oil-stained concrete of the abandoned shipping yard.

The back doors were thrown open with a loud, metallic clatter, flooding the dark cargo hold with harsh, blinding overhead light from the dock's sodium lamps.

"Out. Move!" an enforcer barked, grabbing Elisa roughly by the arm and hauling her to her feet.

Elisa stumbled, her boots hitting the cold pavement as she tried to pull away from his grip. "Don't touch me, you absolute monster!" she snapped, glaring daggers at him.

"Save your breath," Vicenzo said smoothly as he stepped out of the front cab, walking over with his hands tucked casually into his jacket pockets. He looked around the cavernous, rusting interior of Warehouse 12, taking in the towering stacks of empty shipping containers and the echoing emptiness of the space. "Welcome to your new temporary residence, Mrs. Lockhart. Cozy, isn't it?"

Elisa surveyed the decaying warehouse, her heart pounding against her ribs, but her face remained a mask of defiant fury. "You're pathetic, Vicenzo or whatever. You've been hiding in the shadows for years like a coward, and you think kidnapping an unarmed woman makes you a king?"

Vicenzo’s smile tightened, a dangerous spark flashing in his eyes. "Oh, I'm not hiding anymore, Elisa. In fact, I invited your husband to the grand finale. He should be pulling up outside right about now."

Just as the words left his mouth, the distant roar of a high-performance engine echoed from outside the warehouse doors, followed by the screech of tires locking up on the gravel outside.

Vicenzo’s grin widened into a triumphant, sinister smirk. "Speak of the devil. The golden boy has arrived."

Outside, the heavy metal sliding doors of the warehouse shuddered under the force of a sudden impact, groaning loudly as they began to give way.

Inside the shadows near the entrance, unseen and unheard, a single dark sedan rolled silently to a stop behind a stack of rusted iron containers. The engine died with a soft purr.

Matteo slipped out of the driver's side door like a shadow detaching from the night, his hand resting comfortably on the grip of his Beretta, his dark sunglasses reflecting the harsh sodium lights above.

"Let the games begin," Matteo whispered softly to himself in Italian, a cold, ruthless smile touching the corners of his mouth.

The steel doors of Warehouse 12 burst inward with a deafening crash, tearing off their overhead tracks and slamming against the concrete floor.

Through the cloud of dust and swirling sea mist, Ridge stepped into the cavernous space.

His dark overcoat swept around his ankles, his broad shoulders squared, and his dark eyes blazing with a cold, terrifying fury that seemed to drop the temperature in the room by ten degrees. He didn't look like a man who had walked into a trap; he looked like the grim reaper.

"Darco," Ridge’s voice boomed across the empty warehouse, deep, steady, and vibrating with absolute lethal intent.

Vicenzo stepped out from behind a stack of crates, his hand resting casually on the shoulder of a trembling Elisa, a silenced pistol held loosely in his other hand.

"Lockhart. I must say, I admire your punctuality. Though walking in here all by yourself? I expected better sense from the head of the Lockhart empire."

Ridge didn't look at Vicenzo. His dark, piercing eyes locked instantly onto Elisa, scanning her from head to toe to make sure she was breathing, that she wasn't bleeding, that she was still whole.

When Elisa met his gaze, her fierce expression momentarily wavered, replaced by a rush of pure, overwhelming relief. "Ridge..." she whispered, her voice cracking slightly.

"I'm here, sweetheart," Ridge said, his voice softening just a fraction before snapping back into cold, razor-sharp steel as he glared back at Vicenzo. "Let her go, Rick. This between you and me. Your quarrel is with the family name, not with her."

"Oh, but she is the family name now, isn't she?" Vicenzo laughed, pressing the cold barrel of the pistol gently against the side of Elisa’s temple. "You married the wrong girl, Ridge."

Ridge took a slow, deliberate step forward, his boots clicking rhythmically against the concrete floor. "You touch her, and I won't just kill you, Darco. I will erase every trace of your miserable existence from the earth. Every bank account, every shell company, every alias you've ever hidden behind. You will die a nobody."

Vicenzo’s expression darkened, the amusement draining from his face as the sheer weight of Ridge’s presence pressed down on him. "You think you're so smart, don't you? You think you've won because you traced my alias? Look around you, Lockhart. You're standing in the middle of a dead zone. No cell service, no backup, no escape."

"Are you sure about that?" Ridge asked, a cold, knowing smirk finally touching his own lips.

Vicenzo frowned, his eyes darting toward the dark corners of the warehouse. "What are you talking about?"

Before Ridge could answer, a sharp, metallic click echoed from the catwalks high above the shipping containers.

"I believe the gentleman asked you to let go of the lady," a smooth, heavily accented voice drifted down from the shadows.

Vicenzo whipped his head upward, his eyes widening in sudden panic as a dozen laser sights,bright, crimson dots suddenly painted his chest and the chests of his enforcers from every angle above.

From the shadows near the back entrance, Matteo stepped out casually into the light, spinning his Beretta around his finger with casual indifference before leveling the barrel straight at Vicenzo’s spine.

"Mani in alto, stronzo," Matteo called out in a smooth, menacing baritone. "La festa è finita."

Vicenzo’s breath hitched. The gun in his hand began to tremble slightly as he realized the trap hadn't been laid for Ridge,it had been laid for him.

Ridge didn't wait another second. He lunged forward with the speed of a striking panther, crossing the distance between them before Vicenzo could even pull the trigger.