CHAPTER 7

NANCY'S POV

"Of course I'm angry! You're shipping me off to some island!"

"Nancy, I know you're upset. But I need you to understand why—"

"I understand," I interrupted. "The Russos want to kill me to hurt you. So you're locking me away."

"It's not that simple." My father leaned forward. "You don't understand what they're capable of."

"I think three of their men trying to kill me gave me a pretty good idea."

"They weren't trying to kill you." My father's voice got quiet. Heavy. "They were trying to take you."

I felt cold all over. "What?"

"The Russos want you alive, Nancy. They want to use you against me." He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a folder with my name on it. "I need to show you something."

He slid the folder across the desk.

My hands shook as I picked it up. "What is it?"

"Open it. You need to see this."

I opened the folder.

The first thing I saw was a photograph of a young woman.

My stomach dropped.

She was tied to a chair. Her face was beaten and bloody. One eye was swollen shut. Her lip was split. Blood ran from her nose.

But the worst part was her eyes. The one that wasn't swollen showed pure terror.

I wanted to look away but I couldn't.

I turned the page.

Another photo. Worse. Burns on her arms. Cuts on her body. More blood.

Next page. Even worse.

And the next. And the next.

Each one showed more horrible things done to this woman.

I felt sick. My hands shook so bad the photos blurred.

"Stop," I whispered. "I can't—"

But I kept looking. I saw every single one.

The last photo showed her dead body on the ground.

I closed the folder. My hands were shaking. "Who was she?"

"Her name was Isabella Marchetti," my father said quietly. "She was twenty-one. A student at NYU. She wanted to be a teacher."

He paused. "She was also the daughter of Giovanni Marchetti. He controlled the ports in New Jersey. Viktor Russo wanted those ports. So he took Isabella."

Tears filled my eyes. I tried to stop them but couldn't.

"Giovanni gave Viktor everything he wanted," my father continued. "The ports. His business. Everything. But it wasn't enough."

"What do you mean?" I whispered.

"Viktor Russo doesn't negotiate. He doesn't show mercy." My father's voice was cold now. "Giovanni gave him everything. And Viktor still killed Isabella anyway."

I made a sound like a sob. My hand covered my mouth.

"Those photos were taken over three days," my father said. "Three days of torture. Viktor sent them to Giovanni every few hours. Made him watch his daughter suffer. Then he killed her anyway."

I couldn't breathe.

"That's who Viktor Russo is," my father said. "And that's what he'll do to you if he catches you. He'll torture you. Send me pictures. Make me watch you suffer. Even if I give him everything, he'll kill you anyway. Because hurting me is what he wants."

Tears ran down my face.

"That's why I'm sending you away," my father said, his voice softer now. "Not to punish you. But to keep you from ending up like Isabella."

I stared at the folder with my name on it. "Why do you keep these pictures?"

"As a reminder of what happens when I fail to protect people I care about. Giovanni was my friend. I told him his daughter would be safe. I failed him."

He came around the desk and knelt in front of me. "I will not fail you. I will not let Viktor do this to you. I will not lose my daughter."

He took my hands. "I know you hate this. I know you want your freedom. And I promise—as soon as the threat is gone, you can come home. You can go back to your life. But until then, I need you to trust me. Can you do that?"

I looked at him. My father. The crime boss. The killer.

But also the man who loved me more than anything.

He was terrified. I could see it in his eyes.

"Okay," I said finally. "I'll go. I'll stay on the island."

"Thank you." He hugged me tight. "I love you so much, fiore mio. More than anything."

"I know," I whispered.

When he let go, he turned to Zade. "You have your orders. Keep her safe. Keep her hidden. And Zade?"

"Yes sir?"

"If anything happens to her—anything—I'll kill you myself. Understand?"

"Yes sir," Zade said calmly. "I won't let anything happen to her."

"Your word better be worth something," my father said. "Because if it's not, you'll wish the Russos had found you first."

"Understood, sir."

My father stared at him for another long moment, like he was trying to see inside Zade's head, trying to figure out if he could really trust this man with his daughter's life.

Finally, he nodded. "Go. Get her to the plane safely. I'll call you when you land."

He turned back to me. "Come here, fiore mio."

I walked over to him and he pulled me into another hug. This one was longer, tighter. Like he didn't want to let go.

"I'm going to miss you," he said quietly into my hair. "More than you know."

"I'll miss you too, Dad." And despite everything—despite my anger and fear and frustration—I meant it. He was still my father. He was still the man who'd raised me, who'd held me when I cried, who'd never missed a single important moment in my life.

"Be good for Zade," he said, pulling back to look at me. "I know you're angry at him for earlier. But he did what he had to do to keep you safe. Try to remember that."

"I'll try."

"That's all I ask." He kissed my forehead. "I love you. Stay safe. And I'll see you soon. I promise."

"Okay."

He released me and stepped back. Nodded at Zade. "Go."

Zade picked up my suitcase and gestured toward the door. "Miss Valentino."

Outside, the SUV was still parked in the circular driveway. The engine was running—Zade must have left it on. Or maybe someone else had started it while we were inside.

Zade put my suitcase in the back, then opened the passenger door for me.

I got in without arguing. I was too tired, too overwhelmed, too emotionally drained to fight anymore.

Zade got in the driver's seat and pulled away from the mansion. I watched it disappear in the side mirror—the gray stone, the lit windows, my father standing in the doorway watching us leave.

Then we turned a corner and it was gone.

"Where are we going?" I asked. My voice sounded small in the quiet car.

"Private airfield about thirty minutes from here," Zade said. "Your father has a plane waiting."

"Of course he does."

We drove in silence for a while. The roads were empty—it was after midnight now. Street lights flashed by. Occasional cars passed going the other direction.

I leaned my head against the window and closed my eyes, trying not to think about Isabella Marchetti. Trying not to see those photographs burned into my brain.

I must have dozed off because I jerked awake when Zade spoke.

"Miss Valentino."

His voice was different. Tense. Alert.

I sat up, blinking. "What?"

"We have a problem."

"What kind of problem?"

"We're being followed."