Chapter 3 - The Broken Glass, The Raging Syndicate Boss, And The Awakening Of A Ruthless Hunt
The heavy oak doors of the master penthouse suite crashed open with a violent, splintering BANG at 11:30 AM the following morning.
Lorenzo Castillo strode into the suite, his expensive tailored suit wrinkled from a night spent at his downtown underground club, his jaw clenched so tightly a muscle twitched violently in his cheek. His knuckles were bruised, and his dark eyes were bloodshot from a lethal combination of alcohol, lack of sleep, and incandescent rage.
The gala last night had been an unmitigated disaster. Within minutes of Nia’s icy departure, rumors had rippled through the elite crowd like wildfire. By midnight, several nervous investors had pulled him aside to question his stability. By 2:00 AM, Bianca had started hyperventilating in the VIP lounge, complaining that the scandal was ruining her social standing, prompting Lorenzo to dismiss her with uncharacteristic harshness.
He had come home expecting a trembling, tearful wife locked in the master bedroom, waiting to be scolded, apologizing for making a scene in front of his business associates. He had rehearsed the cold, dismissive lecture he would give her about knowing her place in his world.
Instead, he walked into a tomb.
"Nia!" Lorenzo barked, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings of the foyer.
No answer.
He strode down the long hallway toward the master bedroom, pushing the door open. The bed was unmade, perfectly undisturbed since yesterday afternoon. The midnight blue silk dress he had commanded her to wear lay discarded in a crumpled heap on the bathroom tiles.
A cold, unfamiliar spike of unease pierced his chest.
"Nia!" he shouted louder, marching down the corridor toward the nursery.
He shoved the nursery door open.
The room was pristine, quiet, and completely empty. Eli’s crib was stripped down to the bare mattress. The toy chest was half-empty. The small rocking chair sat motionless in the corner.
Lorenzo froze, his breath catching in his throat. He strode over to the walk-in closet. Her designer clothes—the thousands of dollars of couture he had bought her—hung neatly in their places. But her practical woolen coats were gone. Her hiking boots were missing. Her cedar keepsake box, tucked safely on the top shelf behind heavy storage bins, was wide open and completely empty.
He rushed out to the hallway just as Donatella emerged slowly from the linen closet, carrying a stack of towels with deliberate, agonizing slowness.
Lorenzo crossed the space in two strides, grabbing the old housekeeper roughly by the shoulders, his massive fingers digging into her frail flesh.
"Where is she?!" Lorenzo roared, spittle flying from his lips. "Where is my wife and my son?!"
Donatella did not flinch. She looked up into the furious, terrifying eyes of the man who ruled half the city’s docks and drug trade, her expression completely devoid of fear.
"She left, Mr. Castillo," Donatella said steadily.
"Left?! Left where?!" Lorenzo shook her violently, his face turning an ugly shade of mottled crimson. "Did she go to her mother's? Did she run to some hotel downtown?!"
"She didn't tell me where she was going," Donatella replied, her voice hard as iron. "And if she had, do you honestly believe a woman of intelligence would share her destination with a man who just slapped her across the face in front of two hundred wealthy strangers?"
The words hit Lorenzo like a physical blow to the stomach. His grip on her shoulders loosened instantly.
He staggered back a step, running a trembling hand through his dark hair. "She... she wouldn't leave. She has nowhere to go. She has no money of her own, no connections, no protection. She’s completely dependent on me!"
"Then you clearly never knew your wife at all, Mr. Castillo," Donatella whispered, turning her back on him and walking down the hallway toward the service stairs.
Panic—cold, paralyzing, and foreign—flooded Lorenzo’s veins. He lunged for his cell phone, his fingers flying across the screen as he dialed Marcus Vance, his ruthless head of security and chief fixer.
"Marcus!" Lorenzo barked the second the line connected. "Get every single surveillance asset we have activated right now! My wife and son have left the penthouse!"
“On it, Boss,” Marcus’s calm, gravelly voice came over the speaker. “I'll ping her Audi’s onboard GPS immediately. We'll have her tracked down within the hour.”
Twenty agonizing minutes later, Marcus’s private number flashed on Lorenzo’s screen. Lorenzo swiped to answer, his heart hammering against his ribs.
"Talk to me," Lorenzo demanded.
There was a strange, heavy pause on the other end of the line.
“Boss... we tracked the Audi SUV. It’s sitting parked in our underground garage, locked and untouched.”
Lorenzo’s breath hitched. "What do you mean it's parked in the garage? How did she leave?!"
“We checked the building security feeds from 3:00 AM,” Marcus reported, sounding visibly unsettled for the first time in his career. “She carried your son down the service elevator wearing a dark hoodie. She walked four blocks west, paid cash at an independent car rental agency using an alternative driver's license under the name 'Nia Reynolds,' and drove off the island in a silver sedan.”
An alternative driver's license. Cash. A rental car.
The chilling realization slammed into Lorenzo with the force of a freight train.
She hadn't just fled in a blind, emotional panic.
She had planned this.
"Find her," Lorenzo snarled, his voice dropping into a lethal, terrifying register that made even his hardened fixer swallow hard over the phone. "Tear this entire state apart. Check every highway toll booth, every flight manifest, every state line crossing. Bring my son back to me... and bring my wife."
“And if she resists, Boss?” Marcus asked carefully.
May you like
Lorenzo stared at the empty nursery, remembering the defiant, unbreakable look in Nia’s eyes as she walked away from him across the Houseion Crown ballroom floor.
"Bring her back," Lorenzo whispered darkly. "Dead or alive, I don't give a damn anymore. She is still my property."
