Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 94704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
The fire alarm is going off. A door opens, a woman almost steps out into the hallway, but is shoved back into her room, the door slammed shut by the man carrying me. We hurry down the stairs and all I can do is hold on to him as he carries me out into the sleet-soaked night. I can finally draw in a deep breath, still choking on whatever that gas was, my throat full, tears streaming down my face.
Outside the men pull off their masks. It doesn’t matter though. I don’t recognize any of them. We slow as an SUV with tinted windows pulls up.
“No!” I kick, pound my fists into his back. I can’t let him put me in that SUV. I’m finished if that happens. But my fight has no impact at all. And soon he slides me off his shoulder as the SUV door opens. I just make out the silhouette of a man in the back seat and I try one more time, scratching at the face of the one who has me. My feet touch down as he curses, and he almost releases me. Almost.
But then the one inside the SUV grabs me by my arm and drags me inside. The door is closed, the SUV moving. He releases me as the locks engage and I push as far from him as possible expecting Felix Pérez. Terrified of seeing Felix Pérez again.
But it’s not him sitting across from me.
It’s not him at all grinning at me, casually checking his watch, the inky green of a tattoo creeping out from beneath his shirt sleeve.
43
Dante
My phone rings, waking me. It takes me a minute to realize where I am. In my bedroom in the Staten Island house lying on top of the bedding fully clothed.
I fumble for the light, for the phone vibrating on the nightstand. It disconnects before I get to it but immediately starts to ring again. I answer on the second ring.
“Brother?” I ask, seeing Cristiano’s face on the screen. He looks grave.
“We missed something,” he says. “Something big.”
I scrub my face, brace myself.
“St. James. I know why he’s pushing so hard. Why he needs that confirmation so badly.”
“Why?”
“We assumed when his fiancée was killed that the baby died.”
I feel myself go cold.
“He’s been off the grid for the last five years. Disappeared like a fucking ghost.”
“What the fuck are you saying?”
“The woman, Kimberly Barrett, she didn’t die at the café. She died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. But they were able to save the baby.”
“What?”
“A little girl. No name. At least not that we know. Just the word of one of the medics who delivered her. There’s no record of the birth otherwise. At least not at first glance. It’s why we missed it.”
“Jesus.”
“St. James left Mexico two nights later with his fiancée’s body. That was the last anyone heard from him. But it wasn’t just her body he brought home. It was his daughter.”
I push my hands into my hair. “Christ.”
“He’s kept the child a secret for a reason. Buried the fact of her existence. Maybe he’s afraid the person who put the hit on him would go after her.”
“He’s doing this to keep his daughter safe.” Fuck.
“There’s one more thing.”
“Fuck.”
“He’s gone. The penthouse is empty.”
“What?”
“I don’t know how he did it. Charlie’s had eyes on the place since we’ve known about it.”
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
“Fuck!”
“Is Matthaeus able to confirm Mara’s location is secure?”
I open my mouth to answer but just then the bedroom door slams open, surprising me. I look up to find Matthaeus standing in the doorway looking like he, too, has just woken up, his hair disheveled. Shirt untucked from his jeans.
And I know from the look in his eyes the answer to Cristiano’s question.
“I don’t know how it happened!” He fists handfuls of hair, eyes wild.
“No.” I feel the blood drain from my head and don’t recognize my own voice.
No reply.
“No.” I say again, my throat tight because I know what this is.
“Fuck!” He slams his fist into the wall.
I swallow as I hear Cristiano’s curse.
“A team came in. Military precision. Masked. Ready. Gassed our men, no casualties. Noah’s beat up—”
“Mara,” I say, somehow not screaming her name.
“He took her. Left his fucking calling card.”
“Who?” Do I need to ask though?
“Jericho St. James.”
44
Mara
I know this man. He’s Kimberly’s fiancée. But he looks very different than he used to.
He smiles and I get the feeling he’s trying hard not to look wolfish, but it’s not working.
“Mara. You don’t need to be afraid of me. I’m sorry about how that had to happen, but I had no choice. I can promise you though that no one got hurt. I made sure of that.”
I remember how the soldier slammed Noah against the wall, though, and slip my hand into my pocket, feel the Swiss Army knife.