Deceptive Vows: More Than a Contract

Chapter Six

The ballroom was chaos.

Guests screamed and pressed against the walls as men in black suits swarmed the exits. Crystal glasses shattered on the marble floor. The jazz band had stopped mid‑song, instruments dangling from limp hands.

Sloane pushed through the crowd, her heels slipping on the polished stone. Ahead, Mateo moved like a blade—cutting through the panic, his face a mask of cold fury. He grabbed Marco by the collar.

“Where is she?”

Marco’s face was pale. “We don’t know. One minute she was talking to Mrs. De Luca, the next—gone. No one saw anything.”

“No one saw anything?” Mateo’s voice was ice. “There are thirty people in this room. Cameras at every door. How does my sister disappear?”

“The cameras went dark for ninety seconds. A power surge, maybe—”

“Not a power surge.” Mateo released Marco and turned to the nearest security guard. “Lock down the estate. No one leaves. No one.”

Sloane reached his side, breathless. “What can I do?”

He looked at her, and for a moment, his mask cracked. She saw fear there—raw, unguarded. “Go to your room. Lock the door.”

“I’m not hiding while your sister is missing.”

“Sloane—”

“Partners, remember?” She held his gaze. “You said partners. That means I help.”

He stared at her for a long second, then nodded. “Follow me.”

He led her through the ballroom, past the terrified guests, into a hallway she hadn’t seen before. At the end was a door that required his fingerprint to open. Behind it, a security room—walls of monitors showing every corner of the estate, every entrance, every garden path.

Two technicians sat at the consoles, their faces tight with tension.

“Show me the last footage of Isabella,” Mateo ordered.

One technician tapped a keyboard. The main monitor flickered to life: Isabella, standing near the terrace doors, a glass of champagne in her hand. She was talking to an older woman—Mrs. De Luca, presumably. Then she turned, said something, and walked toward the garden exit.

The screen went black.

“Ninety seconds of nothing,” the technician said. “When the feed came back, she was gone.”

“Rewind to before the blackout. Show me everyone who entered or left the garden in the hour before.”

The footage sped backward. Sloane watched, her eyes straining. Guests came and went. Waiters with trays. A man in a gray suit she didn’t recognize.

“Stop.” She pointed at the gray suit. “Who is that?”

The technician zoomed in. The man’s face was partially hidden, but his build was distinctive—broad shoulders, a scar on his right hand.

Mateo’s jaw tightened. “Rossi’s man. I recognize the scar.”

“So Rossi took her.”

“Or someone working for him.” Mateo pulled out his phone. “Marco, I need a trace on every vehicle that left the estate in the last fifteen minutes. And get me Diana Rossi’s number.”

Sloane blinked. “Diana? Why?”

“Because Diana is the only one in that family who might talk.” He dialed, pressing the phone to his ear. After a moment, he said, “It’s Mateo. Your father took my sister. I want her back, or I burn your entire house to the ground.”

A pause. Sloane couldn’t hear Diana’s response, but she watched Mateo’s face shift—from rage to something colder, more calculating.

“You have one hour,” he said. Then he hung up.

“What did she say?” Sloane asked.

“She didn’t know about the k********g. Or she’s lying. Either way, she’s going to find out.” He turned to the technicians. “I want a team at Pier 7. Now.”

“Pier 7?” Sloane’s blood ran cold. “That’s the address Diana gave me. The one where my mother was supposed to be.”

Mateo looked at her. “Rossi is sending a message. He took Isabella to draw us there. He expects me to come alone, guns blazing. He expects me to die.”

“Then don’t go.”

“I have to. She’s my sister.”

Sloane grabbed his arm. “Then I’m coming with you.”

“No.”

“You can’t stop me.”

He stared at her, and she saw the war inside him—the need to protect her, the knowledge that he couldn’t afford to leave her behind where Rossi’s men might find her.

“Fine,” he said finally. “But you do exactly what I say. You stay behind me. You don’t talk to anyone. And if I tell you to run, you run. No arguments.”

“Agreed.”

He pulled her into a brief, hard kiss—more desperate than romantic. Then he released her.

“Let’s go.”

They left the estate in a convoy of three black SUVs. Sloane sat in the back of the lead vehicle, Mateo beside her, a gun in his hand. She had never seen a real gun up close. It looked heavier than she expected.

“Have you ever fired one of those?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“At a person?”

He didn’t answer. That was answer enough.

The drive to Pier 7 took twenty minutes. The warehouse district was dark, abandoned, the only light coming from the moon and the headlights of their convoy. Mateo gave orders through an earpiece, positioning his men around the perimeter.

When they stopped, he turned to Sloane. “Last chance. Stay in the car.”

“No.”

He exhaled, then opened the door. She followed.

The warehouse was massive—rusted steel, broken windows, the smell of salt and decay. Mateo pushed open a side door, and they slipped inside.

Darkness. Then a single light flickered on, revealing Isabella tied to a chair in the center of the room. Her face was bruised, her lip bleeding, but her eyes were alive—furious, defiant.

“Mateo,” she said, her voice hoarse. “It’s a trap.”

A voice echoed from the shadows. “Clever girl.”

Antonio Rossi stepped into the light, a gun in his hand. Behind him, four armed men.

“You came,” Rossi said, smiling. “I was hoping you would.”

Mateo stepped forward, positioning himself between Rossi and Sloane. “Let her go, Antonio. This is between us.”

“Oh, but it’s not just between us anymore.” Rossi’s eyes shifted to Sloane. “The bride for hire. How touching. You know, Mateo, I offered you my daughter. Legitimate blood. And you chose this… nobody.”

“Diana is worth ten of you.”

Rossi’s smile vanished. “Let’s see how brave you are when everyone you love is dead.”

He raised the gun.

Before he could fire, the warehouse doors burst open. Men in tactical gear flooded in, red lasers dancing across Rossi’s chest. A voice through a loudspeaker: “Antonio Rossi, drop your weapon. This is the FBI.”