Snapping Point

19.

"Nothing?" I asked Ottavio with gritted teeth through the phone.

"It's a ghost town. I doubt anyone's set foot here in months," he replied. "But I'll keep searching the next location for you."

"Thanks." A hand slid down my back, urging me to end the call hastily. "I've got to go. Let me know if you find anything," I said, ending the call abruptly.

Two weeks of scouring Bologna for her and still no sign of her demise—no slit throat, no strangulation, no bullet to her pretty face. I hadn't yet decided how to execute her, but her fate was sealed...by my hands.

After offing her friend weeks ago, and coercing a few other women from the IP, the remaining ones were put to work at RoyalGrey. The next day, I had combed through the streets of the bordello, but found nothing.

As the rest of my family delved neck-deep into planning my wedding, discreetly as per my instructions, I found myself inadvertently entangled in pursuing a woman. How absurd.

A twenty-five-year-old woman, outsmarting me, a seasoned criminal, was nothing short of ludicrous.

Despite my efforts, I hadn't even caught a glimpse of her shadow. Whoever briefed Xenia about me did so flawlessly. She was adept at erasing her tracks from the sand she trod upon. She was cunning enough to keep her distance from Morelli—and consequently, from me.

How did I misjudge her?

How did I let my instincts convince me of her innocence that day?

How had I longed to do things to her?

Morelli remained oblivious to my missteps, but his relentless investigation threatened to catch up to me before I could eliminate Xenia. His interrogation of the seven women I disposed of to extract information on Ivan's whereabouts had yielded some leads, and he showed no signs of slowing down. Wherever Ivan was, Xenia wouldn't be far behind—I was certain of that much. However, locating him since the evacuation from that building had proven to be a daunting task.

A persistent feeling gnawed at me that both Ivan and Xenia were concocting something sinister with the intel they gleaned during Xenia's time here and from the other women involved with our organization's men. Moreover, Ivan's absence from recording his podcast for two weeks, a departure from his routine, hinted at a potential catastrophe.

Morelli couldn't—whatever his motivations—reach Xenia before me, so I had been leveraging his leads to conduct my own investigation, only to repeatedly hit dead ends. Dark, desolate dead ends.

"You're worried," Luciana observed as I attempted to slip away from her presence. She was draped in my shirt, hair hastily pulled back into a casual bun, and still carried herself with a captivating grace. Her piercing blue eyes tracked my movements.

I sauntered over to the mirror, raking a hand through my tousled hair. "I'm fine."

Luciana didn't need to be burdened with my troubles. She wasn't the type of wife I envisioned confiding in about my mishaps. Frankly, conversing with her felt like a tedious task, since all she ever spoke of was our wedding in two weeks.

"You still haven't picked a dress from the options I gave you, Roe," she murmured, joining me despite my obvious reluctance for closeness. Ignoring my subtle cues, she enveloped me from behind, her hands trailing down my chest to my waistband, where she nestled them into my pants.

I didn't allow her to proceed further before stepping away, watching her hands retreat. "I've told you to do what pleases you. It's your wedding."

"Our wedding!" she snapped, the possessive pronoun irking her just as much as her longing for intimacy. I could sense her yearning for my touch, unfulfilled since that night.