~ present day ~
{ Enzo }
The study was too quiet. I'd been pacing for the past hour, the sound of my shoes dragging against the marble floor marking each second that passed. My men were late. They'd promised me a body, her body, and yet the clock kept ticking.
I stopped by the desk, fingers brushing over the leather armrest of the chair Mia had once occupied—the same chair she'd dared to sit in when she rifled through my computer, looking for Lily. I could still see her there if I closed my eyes, small frame swallowed by the seat, her eyes sharp and too curious for her own good.
That memory made my jaw clench. I dropped into the chair, leaning forward with a weight that belonged more to exhaustion than comfort. That's when I saw it.
A corner of paper poked out from the underside of the cushion, almost invisible. I froze, then slowly tugged it free.
Her handwriting. I'd know it anywhere.
"It's now 12:00. If I'm not back by 5:30, come look for me at 59 Lincoln Street. But only after 5:30. No earlier. You'll ruin my plan."
I read it once. Twice. Three times. My chest tightened, and my fingers crumpled the paper before I could stop them. A plan? She was playing games. Even now, she thought she could outwit me.
The door burst open. My men dragged in a body wrapped in a tarp, throwing it down like a sack of meat.
"Boss," Marco said, chest heaving. "We found her."
I didn't move. My eyes stayed locked on the note in my hand. Slowly, I rose, crossed the room, and knelt by the corpse. My men shifted behind me, waiting for my approval. Waiting for me to say the word.
I ripped the tarp open.
It wasn't Mia. It wasn't even close.
A man's face stared up at me—bloodied, slack, unrecognizable except for the faint stubble across his jaw.
Silence. Heavy, suffocating silence.
My men shuffled, unsure if they should speak. I didn't give them the chance. The paper in my fist burned like fire. She wasn't dead. She wasn't gone. She was out there—mocking me, leading me, daring me to follow.
And Enzo Rossi didn't chase ghosts.
But this time… I would.
The clock on the wall glared back at me. Five o'clock. Thirty minutes. Thirty minutes to catch her before… before what? I shook my head, trying to push the uncertainty down. There wasn't time to think about that now. There was only action. Only preparation.
I dropped the note onto the desk, smoothing it flat for a heartbeat, then snatched it up again, rolling it into my fist. My knuckles whitened. Her handwriting mocked me—deliberate, precise. She had a goal. She had plans. And now I had a timer.
I moved to the armory, boots clicking against the marble floor. Each step echoed, a percussion to my pulse. The weapons table greeted me like old friends—handguns polished, knives honed, a suppressed pistol nestled in foam. I picked up the Glock, running my fingers over the slide, testing the weight. Each round I loaded into the magazine made the seconds tick faster, made the countdown in my head louder.
Gloves came next. Black leather, snug, frictionless. I slid them on and flexed my fingers. The familiar grip, the friction of the leather, made me feel… ready. My other hand traced the edge of the combat knife in its sheath. I flexed my wrist, felt the cold metal hum against my pulse.
The car keys jangled in my pocket as I moved to the garage. My men followed silently, watching my rhythm, anticipating my decisions. Marco shifted nervously. I didn't look at him. "Check the car," I said, voice low, sharp. "Ammo full, tires pumped, engine ready. We leave in fifteen."
Fifteen minutes. My teeth ground together. I kept pacing, checking the clock again. The streets would be crawling soon, lights flicking on, people wandering home. She had thirty minutes. I had thirty minutes. And every second was a risk.
I ran through scenarios in my head: alleys blocked, cars abandoned, a kid hiding where no one would think to look. I could see her now, small in the shadows, limping, trying not to be seen. And if someone else found her first… no. I couldn't let that happen.
I snapped back to the weapons, sliding a second knife into my belt, and checking the gun once more. Safety off. Loaded. Silent click. Good. I flexed my hands again.
"Move," I commanded my men. Marco and Paolo hustled to follow, carrying gear, checking radios, murmuring confirmations. I didn't speak. I didn't need to. The intent was clear.
Thirty minutes left. And I wouldn't waste a single one.