Chapter 4 - TWELVE DAYS OF SILENCE
The first week after Celeste’s disappearance passed like a slow-motion catastrophe.
In Vincenzo Duca’s world, power was measured by speed, decisiveness, and absolute control. If a shipment went missing, his men tracked it down within hours. If a rival crew encroered on his territory, retaliation was swift and absolute.
But against a ghost who didn't want to be found, absolute power was utterly useless.
Vincenzo’s days blurred together in a suffocating cycle of closed-door meetings, frantic phone calls to transit authorities, and endless hours spent sitting alone in his study staring at the ultrasound printout. He had mobilized every asset at his disposal—private investigators, corrupt municipal officials, digital surveillance experts, and dock foremen along the Great Lakes.
Yet, day after day, the reports came back with the same infuriating phrase: No trace.
Celeste had vanished into the vast, indifferent landscape of America like a drop of rain falling into the ocean. She hadn't contacted her sister in Boston; Enzo’s men had quietly monitored the lines without making contact. She hadn't visited her bank accounts, hadn't used her credit cards, and hadn't checked into a single hotel chain under any known alias.
By day twelve, the tension within the Duca syndicate had reached a boiling point. The captains and lieutenants were whispering behind closed doors, wondering if their boss was losing his grip, distracted by domestic turmoil while lucrative port contracts and territorial disputes required his undivided attention.
Then came the phone call.
It was a Tuesday afternoon. Vincenzo was sitting behind his heavy mahogany desk when his private line buzzed. He snatched up the receiver instantly.
“Duca,” he barked.
“Vincenzo.”
The voice on the other end was smooth, cool, and unmistakably patrician.
Valentina Maro.
Vincenzo closed his eyes, a wave of cold irritation washing over him. In the chaos of Celeste’s disappearance, he had completely forgotten that Valentina even existed. She had become an irrelevant footnote in a tragedy of his own making.
“Valentina,” Vincenzo said, his tone flat and dismissive. “I’m busy. Now is not a good time.”
“Oh, I imagine you are very busy, darling,” Valentina purred through the speaker, her tone dripping with passive-aggressive amusement. “The entire city is buzzing with the most delicious gossip. Word on the street is that your little mouse of a wife finally chewed through her cage and ran away into the night.”
Vincenzo’s grip on the phone tightened until his knuckles turned white. “Watch your mouth, Valentina.”
“Oh, please,” she scoffed, her voice hardening with sudden malice. “Don't play the insulted patriarch with me. You brought me to your penthouse. You paraded me in front of your associates. And now your little domestic arrangement has imploded because you couldn't keep your trousers zipped. Should I be concerned, Vincenzo? Are you going to take your marital frustrations out on my accounts? Because my father’s lawyers would love nothing more than a public corporate war.”
“Your father’s lawyers wouldn't survive twenty-four hours if I decided to open my books,” Vincenzo whispered, his voice dropping into a register so cold and lethal that the line seemed to freeze. “Listen to me very carefully, Valentina. You were a distraction I allowed myself during a weak moment. That moment has passed. If I ever hear your voice, or your name, or your father’s name mentioned anywhere near my personal life again, I won't just ruin your accounts. I will ensure you can never walk down a street in this country without looking over your shoulder. Do we understand each other?”
A sharp intake of breath hissed through the receiver.
“You’re a monster, Vincenzo,” Valentina whispered, genuine fear finally piercing her haughty veneer.
“No,” Vincenzo said softly. “I’m a man who just lost everything that mattered. Goodbye, Valentina.”
He slammed the phone down onto its cradle, cutting off her reply.
He slumped back into his leather chair, rubbing his temples as a dull, pounding migraine flared behind his eyes. He had successfully cleared away the garbage from his life, but it brought him no closer to the only person who mattered.
Where was she?
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How was she eating? Was she sleeping in drafty motels? Was she seeing a doctor regularly to monitor the baby? The thought of Celeste—delicate, quiet Celeste—navigating the cold, unforgiving winter alone without a support system made his chest tighten with a sickening, claustrophobic panic.
He had built an empire of concrete, steel, and blood, yet he couldn't buy back the one thing he had thrown away with both hands.
