Chapter 6
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"We've infiltrated the major hotel chains, airlines, and banking networks," Marco reported, standing at attention beside me. "Any activity under Dante or Valentina's names will ping our system within three minutes."
I sipped scalding black coffee, my eyes fixed on Mexico's digital outline. The betrayal game had ended; the hunt had begun.
"Not enough," I murmured. "Contact every associate we have overseas. Offer a substantial reward for any information on our fugitive lovebirds."
"Right away."
Within twenty-four hours, the first alert flashed on our map—a pulsing red dot centered on a five-star resort in Cancun.
"Got them," Marco said, a rare note of satisfaction in his voice.
I studied the transaction details flooding my screen—presidential suite, vintage champagne, Valentina's shopping spree at Hermès. They were still playing out their romantic fantasy, believing they'd escaped to a new life. Pathetic.
"Reach out to our Mexican connections," I set down my cup, a cold smile playing on my lips. "Inform them of unwelcome tourists on their turf. Five million for Dante Rossi—alive. Whoever helps flush them out earns the Rossi Family's gratitude."
Money and favor—twin temptations no cartel could resist.
The Cancun sun still blazed overhead, but Dante and Valentina's paradise vacation came to an abrupt end. The moment they stepped outside their resort, they felt the shift. Local eyes no longer held tourist curiosity—only the predatory gleam of wolves scenting blood.
That night, black SUVs surrounded their hotel. Dante, instincts still sharp enough, grabbed Valentina and fled through the service entrance, down the garbage chute, abandoning their luggage in their haste.
"What's happening? Who are they?" Valentina gasped, her silk nightgown soiled and designer heels sinking into the filthy alley.
"Isabella!" Dante hissed through clenched teeth, his smooth facade cracking. "She won't stop until we're dead!"
They spent their remaining cash on two tickets aboard a decrepit bus bound for Guatemala. The cabin reeked of sweat and livestock. Valentina pressed a handkerchief to her nose, her face a mask of revulsion and terror. She pawned her Patek Philippe—Dante's gift—for a few hundred dollars to fund their escape.
Their life of luxury evaporated like morning mist. They zigzagged across borders—Mexico to Colombia to Peru—staying in flophouses with permanently stained sheets and eating street food that left their stomachs churning.
Valentina's collection of designer bags vanished one by one, sacrificed for the cash that fueled their desperate flight. Her complaints grew more frequent, their arguments more bitter.
"I'm out of perfume!" she shrieked in a roach-infested motel room. "I need more!"
"We don't have any fucking money left!" Dante snapped, pacing the cramped space like a caged animal.
"No money? That's not what you promised! You said you'd give me the world! Now look at us—hiding like rats in the gutter!"
They had plummeted from paradise to purgatory. And I, continents away, savored every moment of their descent into hell, like binging a particularly satisfying drama series.
In a nameless South American town, Dante finally resorted to his emergency fund—his most secret offshore account with two hundred thousand dollars. He approached a battered ATM and inserted his card with trembling fingers.
"Once we get this money, we can disappear somewhere new and start fresh," he promised Valentina, though the words seemed meant more for himself.
The screen flashed a message that hit like a physical blow: ACCOUNT FROZEN.
The blood drained from Dante's face. He tried again, desperately jabbing buttons, but the result didn't change. His final lifeline had been cut.
"What is it?" Valentina asked, alarm rising in her voice.
"The money's gone," Dante croaked, his voice a hollow shell. "Frozen."
Valentina froze as comprehension dawned. Then she lunged at him, pounding his chest with her fists.
"Liar! You goddamn liar!" she shrieked, her voice cracking with hysteria. "You've destroyed my life! I betrayed my father—my family—for you! Where's the good life you promised? Where is it?!"
She'd been daddy's princess her entire life, coddled and pampered since birth. The terror of their future and the squalor of their present crashed over her like a tidal wave.
"I thought you were somebody, Dante! But you're nothing—a pathetic, useless coward!" Her manicured nails raked bloody furrows down his cheek.
Dante didn't defend himself. He stood motionless, absorbing her fury. Each accusation struck true, slicing through what remained of his shattered pride. He was useless.
Their screaming match drew angry neighbors and finally the innkeeper, who threw them out. Police sirens wailed in the distance. They grabbed their meager possessions and vanished into the chaotic night.
Back in my study at the Rossi Estate, firelight danced across my features as Marco presented the latest surveillance photos.
One showed Dante in a South American slum, hauling cement bags in a filthy t-shirt, his unshaven face gaunt and eyes dead. Another captured Valentina—once dazzling—washing dishes at a greasy food stall, her beauty fading under exhaustion and despair.
I lifted Dante's photo, my fingertip tracing the lines of defeat etched into his face.
"How pathetic," I murmured, savoring each syllable.
"Our people have their exact location," Marco said. "Shall we bring them in?"
I shook my head and tossed the photos into the fire, watching the flames consume his image.
"Why rush?" I raised my wine glass, watching his face blacken and curl. "The game is just getting interesting. Let them keep running, keep looking over their shoulders. Let them wonder each morning if they'll live to see another sunset."
I turned to Marco, my voice dropping to glacial depths: "I want them to understand that hell isn't what comes after death—it's what I've made of their lives. Let them… savor it a while longer."
