I blink, forcing myself to focus on her face. Her hair has come out of its chignon. Her cheeks are flushed with the exertion of getting my attention. Of getting away from her brother. I wrap one arm around her waist and nod. I turn to find Lucien Russo with his tail between his legs, scurrying out the door to the elevators, flanked by two men in SWAT gear. He took advantage of my distraction because he has just declared outright war.

“What the fuck just happened?” I demand of Bruno.

Bruno rushes in as he disconnects one call to answer another.

“He’s going to kill him,” Vittoria says, her eyes red and watery. “He said accidents happen. He said—”

“Those weren’t cops. They were soldiers,” I tell Bruno when he disconnects.

He shakes his head, caught off guard and rattled. “Shit.”

“We need to find out where they’re taking him.”

He nods, his attention in his phone as he types back a reply to a text. “The car tailing them lost them.”

Fuck!

“Take her,” I say, digging my phone out of my pocket as I hand Vittoria to him.

“No!” she cries, clinging to me.

“Get her to one of the SUVs. You ride with her. I want two soldiers in the vehicle with you, and you two follow with a second car. You’re with her at all times. Am I clear?”

The soldiers nod.

“Amadeo, you’ll be on your own,” Bruno says. “This isn’t our city.”

No fucking shit. “I’m calling in a favor. Get her out of here. Do not go back to the hotel. I’ll send you an address as soon as I can.”

“Amadeo!” Vittoria breaks away from Bruno and runs to me. I’m surprised by the force of her hurling herself into my arms. “I want to stay with you. We need to get him out of there. We need—”

“I need to make a call. And you need to go with Bruno. Now. Do you understand?”

“He’s going to—”

I shake her. “Dandelion. Now!” I gesture to a soldier who takes her and turn my back so I don’t have to see her struggle against him as he drags her away. I hit the call button on a number I’ve never used. One my grandfather passed along.

Favors are carried down from generation to generation. And my grandfather had helped Franco Benedetti when he ran this city. Franco’s dead now and has been for years, but this successor will answer this call.

“Who is this?” says the man who picks up on the second ring.

“Amadeo Caballero, Humberto Caballero’s grandson. I need Dominic Benedetti.”

A long silence follows, then footsteps.

“Amadeo. This is Dominic Benedetti. How can I help you?”

* * *