Eighty

Dante

I know something is wrong as soon as Gabrielle and five of my men crowd into my office on the yacht. We have dropped anchor off the coast of Napoli, not far from Marco's beach house.

"Dante," Gabrielle says in his most reasonable tone. "You should sit."

"Tell me," I bark, remaining on my feet.

"A message has come in from Marco," Gabrielle says. "It's bad."

I appreciate his directness, but my gut cramps all the same. What has he done to her? If he has hurt her, I will bomb the entire Gulf of Napoli, skull fuck his corpse, then go after his wife and children. "Show me."

Gabrielle hands me the phone and I freeze. My glorious girl is on her knees, her face covered in tears while a Glock was shoved in her mouth. Marco has her restrained, ropes crossing her body, under her breasts, and I can see the terror in her eyes.

A red mist coats my brain.