Chapter 3 - Paradise Lost
In Santorini, the Mediterranean sun beat down mercilessly on the whitewashed walls of the clifftop villa. It was a postcard-perfect paradise designed for romance, luxury, and total escape. Yet, for Matteo Rossi, the resort felt less like a vacation and more like a gilded cage.
He stood in the shaded bedroom doorway, staring down at his encrypted satellite phone. The screen was frustratingly, abnormally dark.
For the past forty-eight hours, an unshakeable sense of unease had been gnawing at the back of Matteo’s mind. He had called home three times, and every interaction felt wrong. The first time, Arthur, his hardened head of security, had answered immediately, sounding unusually tense, stating that Mrs. Rossi was resting in her room. The second time, a junior housekeeper picked up, claiming Norah had requested tea and did not wish to be disturbed. The third time, Matteo dialed Norah’s personal cell phone directly.
It went straight to voicemail. Not a single ring—direct to the automated greeting.
He told himself she was playing games. She’s punishing me, he muttered under his breath, walking out onto the private balcony where Harper was lounging on a plush white daybed, sipping a brightly colored cocktail garnished with orchids.
“Matteo, babe, come look at this view!” Harper called out, waving her hand lazily. “You’re so quiet today. Are you even enjoying this? We’re in Greece, for crying out loud! Smile a little.”
Matteo stared at her. In the blinding Mediterranean sunlight, Harper looked vibrant, beautiful, and utterly weightless. She didn’t know what a bank run looked like. She didn’t know the sound of a silenced pistol or the weight of a federal warrant.
For a sharp, painful second, Matteo didn’t see Harper. He saw Norah sitting under the harsh range hood in their Boston kitchen, her ankles swollen, her eyes completely devoid of the fierce loyalty she had maintained for years.
“I’m going inside,” Matteo said flatly, turning on his heel.
Harper’s smile faltered, her glass pausing halfway to her lips. “What is your problem? You’ve been pacing like a caged animal for days. If you wanted to sit in a room and brood, you should have stayed home with your pregnant wife!”
The words hit Matteo like a physical blow. He stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes narrowing into cold, dangerous slits. The air around him dropped ten degrees.
“Watch your tone, Harper,” he warned, his voice a low, gravelly threat that usually made grown men step backward.
Instead of backing down, Harper scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Oh, please. Don’t use that mafia-boss routine on me. You’re thousands of miles away from your thugs. If you’re that miserable about leaving her behind, why did you bring me here?”
Matteo didn't answer. He turned and walked back into the air-conditioned bedroom, slamming the heavy wooden door behind him. His chest tightened with a suffocating panic he had never experienced in his life.
He picked up his phone, bypassed the security lock, and dialed Arthur’s direct line.
It rang twice before the heavy click of connection.
“Boss?” Arthur’s voice sounded strained, distant, like he was speaking from inside a vault.
“Put Norah on the phone right now,” Matteo commanded, his voice trembling with a sudden, uncharacteristic fury. “I’m done with these games.”
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There was a long, agonizing pause on the other end of the line. When Arthur finally spoke, his voice was tight with unmistakable dread.
“Boss... that’s the thing. Mrs. Rossi isn’t in her room. In fact... nobody is answering the master wing.”
