Stolen: Dante’s Vow by Natasha Knight
Dante
The night is short. She doesn’t sleep peacefully. Not for more than an hour at a time. I wonder if this is normal for her. If nightmares always plague her. Make her nights so restless.
I woke her twice when it got bad. This last time she seemed to wake herself up. She went back to sleep easily enough only to be haunted by more demons. It’s only when the first light of the sun shines through the window that she finally falls quiet and by then, I can’t sleep. So, I make coffee and sit on the couch with Matthaeus, who is an insomniac worse than me, to video call Charlie. It’ll be early afternoon in Italy.
He answers on the second ring, and I see he’s at his home office.
“Glad to see you in one piece,” is his greeting.
“You look like you’ve slept about as much as I did,” I reply.
He turns to Matthaeus. “Matthaeus. Thanks for keeping an eye on him.”
Matthaeus just nods once.
“Petrov,” I say, taking a sip of my coffee.
“Petrov,” Charlie says and the screen switches to a different view. The interior of one of David’s—now mine—penthouse properties in the city, the rooms torn apart, furniture shredded, art broken to pieces, antique furniture destroyed.
“The Wallingford property,” Charlie says.
I smirk. “I guess I should send him a thank-you card. Saved me the trouble.”
Charlie’s face is back on the screen. He is unamused. “I know you don’t care about the properties you inherited, and I understand why, but you could donate the furniture, give it to a charity. Make something good out of something bad.”
“I don’t want to stain anyone else’s life with anything David touched. Is that what you’re so upset about? The broken crap? It’s just stuff.”
“No, Dante. What I’m upset about is if he can find the penthouse, it’s only a matter of time until he finds the warehouse location.”
“It’s buried deeper. You know that. And besides, I already told you. I’m not hiding. What aren’t you telling me?”
He glances at Matthaeus for a moment, then the screen flips again, and I realize why he looks like he hasn’t slept. He hasn’t. I read the handwritten message on a torn off sheet of letterhead that once belonged to David.
You sent a message. I’m sending one back.
Return.
My.
Property.
Red’s. Midnight. I’ll reserve the cellar for you.
If you’re late, she gets hurt. You show up on time and only you’ll get hurt.
You don’t come at all, and I have my friend pick up your nephew and take him out for an ice cream cone. I hear he has a sweet tooth.
There’sa photo next to the note of Alessandro and Scarlett in a café somewhere. They’d have been guarded. There’s no way Cristiano would let them go anywhere without protection so the fact that he has this photo at all is alarming.
“Does Cristiano know about this?”
“Yes. He’s doubled the guard.”
“Good.” I re-read the note.
Red’s. A private club in downtown Manhattan owned by one of Petrov’s sons.
Matthaeus opens his laptop and starts typing.
“Do you have a contact inside?” I ask Charlie.
He looks hesitant.
“Neither Mara nor Scarlett not to mention Alessandro or anyone else is safe until he’s dead and you know it,” I add.
“You can’t take her near that place. I’m sure he’ll pick you up before you get close to the club.”
“I don’t plan on taking her. But I won’t be able to take a weapon in.”
“No, you won’t.” The screen switches again to show a couple of shots of a large mostly empty room with a counter taking up one wall. There’s a large deep, dirty sink, tile floors, a drain in the center of the floor. Makes clean up easier. The wall behind the counter is tiled too and on the counter are various items which at quick glance may appear to be for use in a kitchen.
But this isn’t the kitchen at Red’s.
“The cellar,” Charlie says.
I take in the single round table. It’s small. Two chairs set across from each other. Several more chairs along the wall. A set of handcuffs dangles off the rung of one of the chairs at the wall. Deep red stains the grain of the wooden back and seat.
“If you walk in there, you may not walk out.”
“You have a contact inside?” I ask again, still looking at the shot of the cellar. Memorizing my limited options.
“Yes. But this is more than risky. They own the damn building.”
“We got Scarlett out of that house and that was riskier. My men will be nearby.”
“The cellar exit is sealed,” Matthaeus says, turning the laptop around to point out a photo of the exterior of the building. “Closest exit is the front door.”
“You can’t be thinking to do this,” Charlie says.
“What’s the alternative?” I ask him and he’s quiet. He knows there isn’t one. Petrov needs to die. Period.
“What do you need inside?” he asks.
“You can’t go to the cellar,” Mara says before I can answer. She’s standing barefoot on the edge of the living room, her hair like a white cloud around her, hands at her sides, eyes locked on me. “You won’t come out if you do.”