The glass shattered against the wall, missing my head by inches.
I ducked behind the leather couch, my heart hammering so hard I thought it might burst. Marco stood in the doorway of the penthouse, his face twisted with anger I'd never seen before.
"You tried to escape?" His voice was quiet. Deadly quiet. "After everything we told you?"
"I just wanted to go home!" The words tumbled out before I could stop them. "You can't keep me here like some prisoner!"
Dante appeared behind Marco, and for a second, I thought he might help me. But his eyes were cold as ice.
"Your home doesn't exist anymore, Isabella," Dante said, pulling out his phone. He tapped the screen and turned it toward me. "Look."
My stomach dropped. On the screen was a photo of my house—or what used to be my house. The windows were boarded up. A big red sign on the door said FORECLOSED in ugly capital letters. Our garden, where Mom used to plant roses, was brown and dead.
"No." I shook my head. "That's not real. You're lying."
"The bank took it three days ago." Marco crossed his arms. "Your father's debts didn't just disappear when he did."
I wanted to cry, but I wouldn't give them the satisfaction. Instead, I stood up, fists clenched at my sides. "Then let me go to my aunt's house. Or my friend Sarah's. Anywhere but here."
"Can't do that." Dante pocketed his phone. "You're collateral now."
"I'm a person, not a thing!"
"You're both." Marco walked to the massive windows overlooking the city. "And until we get back what your father stole, you stay here."
That word again. Stole. They kept saying Dad stole something, but they wouldn't tell me what. Every time I asked, they changed the subject or left the room.
"What did he take?" I demanded, stepping forward. "You keep saying he stole from you. What was it? Money? Jewelry? What?"
Marco and Dante exchanged a look. The kind of look that made my skin crawl.
"Sit down," Dante said.
"No."
"Sit. Down." His voice left no room for argument.
I sat on the edge of the couch, my legs bouncing with nervous energy. Marco pulled a chair over and sat across from me, so close our knees almost touched.
"Your father worked for our family for fifteen years," Marco began. "We trusted him. He managed our investments, our properties, our—" he paused, "—special acquisitions."
"I don't know what that means."
"It means he handled valuable things for us," Dante explained, leaning against the wall. "Very valuable things that can't be replaced."
Marco pulled a small black box from his jacket pocket. He opened it slowly, like whatever was inside might explode. Inside sat a piece of paper—old and yellowed and covered in strange symbols I didn't recognize.
"Three months ago, your father was supposed to deliver something to a client in Rome," Marco said. "A collection of artifacts that belonged to our family for generations. Documents. Jewelry. Items worth more than this entire building."
My mouth went dry. "How much?"
"Fifty million dollars."
The number hung in the air like a bomb. Fifty million. I couldn't even imagine that much money. I'd never seen more than twenty dollars at once in my whole life.
"That's impossible," I whispered. "Dad wouldn't—he couldn't—"
"He did." Dante's jaw tightened. "He took everything and vanished. The buyer is very unhappy. And when our buyers are unhappy, people die."
The room spun. I gripped the edge of the couch to steady myself. "You're going to kill me."
"No," Marco said quickly. Too quickly. "But we need those artifacts back. Your father loved you more than anything. If he knows we have you, he'll surface. He'll make contact."
"And then what? You'll let me go?"
Neither of them answered, which was answer enough.
I stood up, pacing the room like a caged animal. "This is insane. I don't know where he is. I don't know anything about stolen artifacts or Rome or any of this!" My voice cracked. "I'm just a kid who wants her dad back!"
"We all want things we can't have," Dante said coldly.
Something inside me snapped. All the fear, all the confusion, all the anger that had been building up since they took me—it exploded.
"I hate you!" I screamed. "Both of you! You're monsters!"
I grabbed the closest thing—a heavy glass vase—and threw it at Marco. He dodged easily, but I was already running. I sprinted toward the door, my sneakers squeaking on the marble floor.
Almost there. Almost free. Just a few more steps—
Strong arms wrapped around my waist, lifting me off the ground. Dante. He carried me, kicking and screaming, back to the living room and set me down hard on the couch.
"Enough," he growled.
Hot tears finally spilled down my cheeks. I hated that they saw me cry, but I couldn't stop. Everything was falling apart. My dad was a thief. My home was gone. I was trapped in this golden prison with two men who looked at me like I was a chess piece instead of a person.
Marco's phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, and his face went pale.
"What?" Dante asked.
"We have a problem." Marco showed him the phone.
Dante's expression turned to stone. "When?"
"Twenty minutes ago."
They were talking in that code again, saying words that meant nothing to me. But the fear in their eyes—that meant everything.
"What's happening?" I demanded. "What's wrong?"
Marco looked at me, and for the first time since I met him, I saw something that might have been sympathy.
"Your father made contact," he said slowly. "But not with us."
My heart leaped. "Where is he? Is he okay?"
"He sent a message to the buyer. The one in Rome." Marco's hands curled into fists. "He told them he doesn't have their artifacts. He said someone else took them. Someone inside our organization."
The room went silent. Even the city noise from outside seemed to disappear.
"That's good, right?" I said desperately. "That means it's not his fault. Someone else stole them. You can let me go—"
"It means," Dante interrupted, his voice like gravel, "that someone in our family is a traitor. And until we find out who, no one is safe."
He walked to the window and pulled the curtain back an inch. "Especially not you."
"Why not me?"
Marco and Dante looked at each other again. That same loaded glance that made my blood run cold.
"Because," Marco said quietly, "if your father is telling the truth, then someone very dangerous wants you dead."
The lights went out.
All of them, all at once. The entire penthouse plunged into darkness so complete I couldn't see my own hands.
And somewhere in the black, I heard the soft click of the door opening.