Victor Moretti didn't take bad news lightly.
But nothing, nothing, had ever made him this furious.
The call came in just after midnight. One of his trusted lieutenants, Matteo, was on the line, voice tight with urgency.
"She's gone," Matteo said, the words clipped, precise. "Lena. She's missing."
Victor froze. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to pause.
"No," he said slowly, disbelief mixing with the first flickers of rage. "Impossible. How?"
"I don't know," Matteo admitted. "Her car was attacked outside the clinic. Our men tried to respond…"
"Not fast enough," Victor finished for him, his tone cold, sharp. Like a whip cracking across the night.
"Yes, sir."
Victor's hands tightened on the phone. He had trained for threats, ambushes, wars. He had survived every betrayal, every rival, every attempt to dismantle his empire. But this, this was different.
"This is Dante Russo," Victor said finally, the name leaving his lips like a curse. "He's testing me. He's taking her to punish me."
"Sir…." Matteo began.
Victor slammed the receiver down. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the quiet of his office. He rose, walking to the massive windows that overlooked his city, his empire. The skyline glimmered under the night, lights sparkling innocently. His city would burn before Dante Russo took his daughter.
He clenched his fists. "Prepare every asset. Every operative. Every soldier. I want her back."
"And the retaliation?" Matteo asked cautiously.
Victor's gaze hardened. "Prepare it all. This isn't just about retrieval. This is war."
Meanwhile, across the city, Lena sat alone in her room at Dante Russo's estate, trying to make sense of the night's events.
Her body ached, her mind raced. Dante had left her with one message, one understanding: she was the weapon, she was leverage, she was his instrument. And now, somewhere beyond the fortified walls, her father was mobilizing.
She shivered at the thought. Victor Moretti was dangerous. He ruled with fear, loyalty, and lethal precision. If Dante hadn't been careful, she might already be caught in the crossfire.
But the fear didn't stop her defiance.
She refused to let her father's empire define her anymore. She refused to be a mere pawn in a game of vengeance.
And yet, even as she steeled herself, the reality sank in: she had no choice. Not now. Not while Dante Russo was in control.
Back in his office, Victor moved with the precision of a man born to command. Phones rang. Men scrambled. Orders were barked, shouted, and repeated. Every trusted lieutenant was called, every ally summoned.
"Every vehicle in the city," Victor commanded. "Block exits. Check roads. Nothing moves without my approval."
A map was spread across his desk. Red pins marked known Russo territories. Blue pins indicated his own forces. He traced lines with his finger, visualizing the moves and countermoves.
Dante Russo had dared to strike at the heart of his world, and Victor intended to respond with a fury that would make the city tremble.
"Find her," he growled. "And when you do… make Russo understand what happens to those who threaten my family."
The men nodded, fear and loyalty evident in their faces. Victor's empire was ruthless, but his will was absolute. Every operative knew the rules: betray him, and you died. Fail him, and you died. Succeed… and you were rewarded beyond imagination.
Dante, however, was not idle.
From his vantage point in the estate, he observed every movement of his own men. He had anticipated Victor's reaction. Of course Victor would retaliate. Of course he would mobilize his forces. That was the predictable part. The part that made this game delicious.
Dante Russo wasn't cruel because he enjoyed cruelty. He was strategic because chaos was a tool, and in this chaos, he would learn everything he needed to know.
He had taken Lena for a purpose. Not for ransom, not for leverage alone. She was the key to dismantling Victor's empire in a way that brute force could never accomplish. And yet, as he watched her, her quiet defiance, the way she held herself, he felt something unfamiliar.
Something that wasn't part of his plan.
Interest. Curiosity. Perhaps even… admiration.
He pushed the thought aside. He didn't have time for sentiment. Not now. Not when the enemy was already moving.
Victor's forces spread through the city like wildfire. Every corner, every alley, every road was monitored. Men moved silently, efficiently. Orders were executed without question. Every second counted. Every misstep could cost Lena her life.
Yet, even as the city seemed to tremble under Victor's command, whispers began to circulate. Dante Russo had never acted impulsively. His moves were precise. Lethal. Calculated. If Lena was in his hands… she was already at the center of a storm that even Victor might not control.
Victor's fists slammed against the desk. "I will find her," he said through gritted teeth. "I will tear him apart for this. And when I do, Russo will understand that no one, no one, crosses Victor Moretti and lives to tell the tale."
The room was silent except for the hum of surveillance feeds and the occasional click of keyboards. The threat of war hung thick in the air. And yet, Victor's mind wasn't just on revenge. It was on Lena. His daughter. The girl who had been his weakness and his pride.
Every soldier he mobilized, every operative he sent into the night, every plan he devised, was about her. And he wouldn't stop until she was back in his arms. Or until the world burned trying.
Lena sat quietly in her room, thinking about the father she had loved and feared, and the man she had met only hours before. Dante Russo was no myth. No exaggerated story whispered by frightened men. He was real. Dangerous. Ruthless. And terrifyingly intelligent.
She realized, with a sinking heart, that she was caught between two unstoppable forces: her father's wrath, and Dante Russo's calculated precision.
One wanted to save her, one wanted to use her. And neither was willing to give her a choice.
Her mind raced. Escape seemed impossible. Fighting back seemed foolish. Waiting, however, was lethal. Every hour that passed, the city grew closer to chaos, and her life became more entwined with a man whose power she could neither predict nor resist.
Her gaze fell on the window, the bars casting long shadows across the floor. Outside, the night was calm, almost peaceful. Inside, the storm had already begun.
And somewhere in the distance, Victor Moretti was gathering his forces, preparing for a war that would consume everything he had built.
Lena realized, with a shiver, that her life was no longer just her own. She was the spark that could ignite an empire, or burn it to the ground.
And she had no idea which would happen first.
Dante Russo had made one thing clear: this was no ordinary kidnapping. This was a chess game, and she was the queen. Every move mattered. Every decision had consequences.
Her pulse quickened, not just with fear, but with a strange, dangerous anticipation. She would have to be clever. Ruthless. Stronger than she had ever imagined.
And somewhere deep inside, a quiet voice whispered:
I will survive.
Victor's preparations accelerated. Operatives moved, alliances were tested, and the city's underworld began to shift beneath the weight of his wrath. And Dante Russo? He watched, waited, calculated every move. He didn't panic. He didn't falter.
Because he knew the truth about the woman in his care, and the power she represented, not just over her father, but over him as well.
The enemy's daughter was more than a pawn. She was a storm in her own right. And Dante Russo had no intention of underestimating her.
The night stretched long, the city alive with silent tension. Somewhere, Lena shivered, alone but not defeated. And somewhere, Victor Moretti clenched his fists, fury burning in his veins.
War had begun.
And the queen of the board was only just awakening.