The Moretti estate was no longer quiet. The sounds of engines, radios, and hurried footsteps filled the air. Guards moved in formation, scanning every inch of the property while Damian Moretti stood in the control room, his eyes fixed on the monitors.
Every second of footage from the night before was being reviewed. Every call, every message, every movement was under scrutiny.
"Nothing past the main road," one of the guards reported. "The car disappears right after the second checkpoint."
Damian's jaw tightened. "Then she didn't make it to the highway."
Clara stood nearby, pale and tense. "Sir, the police—"
"No police," Damian cut in sharply. "Not yet.
He turned to his head of security. "Send two teams. One to sweep the road between the estate and the checkpoint. The other is to check every camera within a ten-kilometer radius. I want her car found, and her phone too"
"Yes, sir."
The men moved quickly, leaving Damian and Clara alone in the room.
Clara's voice was quiet. "Mr. Romano called again. He's on his way here."
Damian didn't look up. "Good."
He stood still for a moment, his mind racing. Then he turned to Clara. "Who knew I wouldn't be here last night?"
Clara blinked, startled. "Sir?"
"Who knew I'd be in Milan?" His tone was calm, but his eyes were sharp. "Start with the staff. Then tell me who outside this house knew my schedule."
Clara hesitated. "Only the staff, sir. And a few external contacts. I've been coordinating invitations for an event."
"Names."
She swallowed. "There's one I've been corresponding with — Elena Marin, from the European Arts Circle. She reached out weeks ago about a partnership for the foundation. Everything seemed legitimate."
Damian's gaze hardened.
"Sir. She's been polite, professional–"
He cut her off. "Show me the messages."
Clara quickly pulled up her tablet and opened the email thread. The logo, the tone, the signature — all flawless. But as Damian scrolled through, his expression darkened.
"This isn't real," he said quietly.
Clara's breath caught. "What do you mean?"
"There's no European Arts Circle in Florence."
The room fell silent.
Damian turned toward his head of security, who had just re-entered. "Find out where that email came from, trace the number behind it."
Minutes later, Don Romano's black car pulled through the gates. The guards stepped aside immediately. He stepped out, his face set in a cold expression.
"Where is she?" he demanded.
Damian met his gaze. "We're tracking her. The last footage shows her leaving the estate at 8:47 p.m. After that, nothing."
Romano's eyes narrowed. "Nothing?"
"Her car vanished before reaching the highway. No trace, no signal."
Romano exhaled slowly, his voice low and dangerous. "Then someone made sure of that."
He turned toward the monitors, studying the footage himself. "She was driving alone?"
"Yes."
Romano's jaw clenched. "She wouldn't have gone without a reason. Whoever sent that message knew exactly what to say."
Damian nodded. "They used your name."
Giovanni's eyes darkened. "Then they know me. And they know her."
The room fell silent again, the air thick with fury.
Damian finally spoke. "We'll find her."
Romano's reply was cold. "We'd better."
Far from the estate, Alessia sat in the dim warehouse, her wrists bound, her head heavy. The faint sound of footsteps echoed outside the door.
The woman entered again, carrying a small tray with a glass of water. She set it down in front of Alessia.
"You should drink," she said softly. "You'll need your strength."
Alessia looked up at her, her voice hoarse. "Why are you doing this?"
A faint smile touched Isabella's lips. "He hurt me first."
She turned toward the door, pausing for a moment. "They'll come for you, of course.
The door closed, leaving Alessia in silence once more.