Easton’s flashy Maserati and an unfamiliar Infiniti SUV—presumably Jae’s—are both parked in the driveway when I pull up to my house. The abundance of lights on inside casts a warm glow around the property, but the unsettling feeling inside me is anything but.
Throughout the entire drive home, numerous scenarios of what may have happened run through my head, and I don’t like where any of them lead. So many mysteries still surround her—questions about her ex-husband and what she meant when she said he’s gone now, questions about how her mom and brother died, questions about why she looks so different from the pictures I’d found of her. A shitload of questions, zero answers, and now the girl I love has disappeared. I slam my fist against the steering wheel, the sharp honk from the horn shattering the stillness of the night.
Springing from my car, I rush inside, where my brother and Jae are waiting at the kitchen island. Their heads pop up as I fly through the back door, hoping I’ve heard something, but with one look at my expression, their faces fall.
“The first thing I need to do is pull my phone records from today,” I announce authoritatively. “I thought I forgot it in my office before my one o’clock meeting, but when I had Caroline check for it, she couldn’t find it anywhere, so I went straight to the store and had them turn the old one off and hook up a new one to my number. I didn’t even think for them to run one of those phone locator searches; it was under warranty and I was in a hurry to get home.”
I retrieve my laptop from the office and set up shop on the kitchen’s granite island. “Easton, were you at the office at all today?” I ask, glancing over to my only sibling. Sometimes I forget how much we look alike. Other than his sandy-colored hair being longer than my tousled, wavy locks, we share the similar bone structure and bright blue eyes, exactly like our mother.
Staring down at his shoes, he shakes his head. “No, I’ve been at San Anita’s since the morning pole race.”
“Was Emerson at the office? Do you know?” I bark, desperation taking control of my tone.
“Yeah, she called me around lunch to give me my messages and let me know she was leaving early to go out of town with some friends for the weekend. I didn’t ask a lot of questions ‘cause . . . well, ‘cause I was busy and not really paying attention to her.” Easton shrugs his shoulders and threads his fingers through his hair as he talks, the same exact thing I do when I’m either frustrated or at a loss—both of which I’m overwhelmed with right now.
“I received an email from her at some point today with comments on the latest player graphics I sent over. Hold on, let me check what time that was,” Jae chimes in as she searches for the message on her phone. Her face falls when she finds it. “Oh, it was at nine-fifteen this morning.”
The next forty minutes, I spend talking to Sprint, only to find out that texts to Blake’s phone were indeed sent from my old phone around one-thirty and the GPS locator had been disengaged. That confirms it. My missing phone has to be connected to Blake’s disappearance. Whoever set her up to meet me was smart enough to make sure we wouldn’t be able to trace fingerprints or DNA.
Surveillance footage from the security cameras set up at the office is our next task. I make a call to the head of our internal security, and within ten minutes, I have the film from the cameras positioned directly outside my office. Fast-forwarding through the tape to the afternoon, there’s only one person other than my assistant who enters my office the entire time I’m away.
Emerson Lister.
Betrayal boils inside me, and I’m afraid of what I’m capable of doing when I get my hands on her. Family friend or not, she’s crossed the line this time.
“Find her. Now.”
I LIE AWAKE, BUT DARE not open my eyes. Bound together with an abrasive rope digging into the paper-thin flesh of my wrists, my arms are tethered above my head to the frame of the bed, though my feet and legs remain free. Lying curled in a fetal position, a musty, threadbare blanket covers my otherwise naked body as I count my breaths, wondering which will be my last. A chill slices through me as I think about what I’m about to endure, causing goosebumps to blanket every inch of my exposed skin and my teeth to chatter violently against each other. The visceral fear of my situation roots deep within my bones.
I have no idea where I am or how I got here. I haven’t the slightest clue what time it is or even what day it is. But the one thing I do know for sure is who is responsible for my being here.
That jealous, conniving bitch, Emerson. I should’ve known after hearing her talk with her friends at Madden’s party that she’d do anything possible to get her hands back on him. But once again, I was too busy falling head-over-heels in love with someone who seemed too good to be true, and I let my guard down, became blind to what was going on around me. I’d told myself never again, and less than a few months into my new life, I fell right back in.
I’m so fucking stupid.
The unexpected image of Emerson sitting cross-legged, waiting for me in the backseat of that town car, all high-and-mighty with her typical arrogant expression, will be forever etched in my mind. Perfectly styled, strawberry-blonde ringlets framing her equally flawless heart-shaped face. A wide-spread, malicious grin showing off her impeccably straight white teeth. Bright, emerald green eyes sparkling victoriously as my birth-given name rang out loud and clear between us in the confined space.
I should’ve known the façade of a life I was living wouldn’t last long. I knew better than to believe I’d ever be able to start over and not be discovered. The day I pulled the trigger on Ish, I sealed my fate. Moving to California and pretending to be someone I wasn’t only prolonged the inevitable.
The only way out of the mafia is death, and now, all I can hope is for it to be as quick as possible. But I know better than that, too. I’m sure by now my ex-father-in-law, Vincent Ricci, has developed his own special form of torture, a way of inflicting the most pain possible before I actually die, intended specifically for the woman who killed his son. Bastard or not, Ish was his blood, and Vincent won’t rest until mine is spilled.
Footsteps. A pair of thunderous feet echoing angrily outside the room, growing closer with each stride, startle me and cause me to lose count. Trembling with trepidation, I roll over onto my stomach and bury my face into the mattress, praying silently for mercy.
The visitor stomps inside and grunts, turning on the overhead light just before the door closes behind him.
“Wake up and uncover your face, girl,” the man orders in a rumbling baritone, his heavy accent unfamiliar—maybe Eastern European, but definitely not Italian. “We have to leave soon.”
Squeezing my eyelids shut as tightly as possible, I ignore his command. An infinite number of questions swirl in my mind as I desperately try to fit the pieces of the puzzle together. If I’m not with Vincent or the Italians, where am I? Who else would want me captured? And how is Emerson associated with all of this?
“Uncover your face,” he repeats gruffly as he approaches the bed. “Don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be.”
Again, I remain stubbornly still, blatantly refusing to roll over and look at him. My palms, underarms, and the backs of my knees all feel damp and clammy, as my nervous system switches into fight or flight mode. If it’s true what they say that you can smell fear, then right now, I reek of it.
An exasperated sigh whooshes from him as he grabs the sheet and insistently yanks it down to my hips, revealing my bare back and butt to him. Instinctively, I stiffen, waiting for the blow I know is coming . . . but never does.