The smoke of battle still clung to Matteo Corsini like a second skin. His shirt was stained crimson at the sleeves, his jaw bruised, his hands still trembling from the cold intensity of war. Volgaria was burning, yet all he could think about was the damn phone he'd left charging in the Castellano estate—untouched for over a day.
When the final gunshot had echoed at the docks, leaving Anton Vasiliev's men either dead or on their knees, Viktor Castellano had given him a nod of gratitude. Blood and ash marked Volgaria's soil, but Matteo had fought like the king of Italy's underworld that he was.
Now that l he returned to the room check his phone, his phone screen flashing like a lifeline in the dim room. Forty-two missed calls.
All from Alessandra.
His chest tightened. The world around him blurred. He pressed play on the first voicemail.
"Matteo… please. I need you. I can't do this anymore. They're going to force me…"
Click.
He didn't even listen to the rest. He was already moving.
Matteo's private jet soared through the sky at lethal speed. He piloted it himself, gloved hands gripping the controls like a man possessed. Four hours, no more. That was all it would take. He didn't care if the engine overheated. Alessandra needed him.
The moment he landed in Italy, an Aston Martin waited on the runway like it knew he was coming. He didn't speak to anyone. No greetings. No words.
He drove like a storm.
By the time he reached the gates of the Ricci estate, his men were already moving into position. He didn't care for diplomacy. Not this time.
The Ricci guards didn't stand a chance.
Silencers whispered through the air as his men disarmed and bound the estate's security detail with brutal efficiency. Matteo led the charge, blood-stained shirt still clinging to his chest, gun holstered at his side like the god of war.
He stormed the mansion like it was his to conquer, and maybe… in his world, it was.
He didn't knock. He kicked open the door to Alessandra's room.
Empty.
His heart thundered in his chest as his eyes scanned the room, the scent of her perfume still clinging to the air like a ghost. That's when he saw it.
The window.
The twisted bed sheets knotted together, hanging down to the first-floor garden.
She'd escaped. Alone. On foot.
He gripped the windowsill so hard his knuckles whitened. For a brief second, he exhaled, relief slicing through him like a clean knife. She got out. She was safe. Maybe.
But that peace didn't last long.
The sound of voices behind him drew his attention. When he turned around, he was met with a wall of aristocratic menace.
Leonardo Ricci.
Isabella Ricci.
Alessandra's father.
Her uncles.
Aunties.
And worst of all—his own father, Giovanni Corsini.
Luca stood beside him like a goddamn golden boy.
Matteo's eyes flared with something ancient and violent.
He took slow, deliberate steps forward until he stood inches from Leonardo Ricci, staring down the man who had once slapped Alessandra across the face without hesitation.
Without a word, Matteo pulled out his gun and pointed it at the man's skull.
Gasps rang out through the hallway, but no one moved.
"I'm not here for war," Matteo said, voice dangerously calm. "I came to see Alessandra. But she's not here."
Leonardo didn't blink. "You come into my home, with weapons, threatening me—"
"I'm not threatening," Matteo interrupted, pressing the muzzle against the older man's forehead. "I'm promising."
"You have 24 hours. If Alessandra is hurt—if she's been touched, bruised, or broken in any way—" he leaned closer, his voice a venomous whisper, "—I will kill you with my bare hands."
He turned to the entire Ricci family, sweeping his gaze across their stunned faces.
"And if I find out that any of you had a hand in making her run… I will burn this entire goddamn legacy to the ground."
His gaze finally landed on Luca, elder brother, standing there with a smug twist to his lips. Matteo took a step toward him.
"And you—" he snarled, voice low. "I told you to stay away from her. She's mine."
Luca lifted his chin. "She' my fiancee—"
"She's not yours," Matteo snapped. "Not anymore. The moment she ran to me , she became mine."
He holstered the gun and turned on his heel, not bothering to look back. The sound of his boots echoed through the marble hall like war drums.
Silence followed in his wake.
Even Leonardo Ricci—the patriarch feared across Italy—stood speechless.
As Matteo's car screeched out of the Ricci estate, he pulled out his phone and called his right hand.
"Track her phone. Now."
"She's not using it," came the reply. "But we got a ping from her penthouse downtown. Someone went in. Might be her."
"I want every street camera from the Ricci estate to the city. I want her location before the hour ends," Matteo ordered.
"And if she's at the airport?"
Matteo's eyes darkened.
"Then she's running from me. And I'm not letting her go."