LEDGER
The Henderson propertyacquisition is taking longer than expected.
I lean back in my office chair, listening to the lawyer drone on about zoning regulations and environmental impact studies. Across from me, the seller’s representatives look bored, checking their watches every few minutes.
“Mr. Volkov?” The lawyer pauses. “Do you agree to the revised timeline?”
“No.” I tap my pen against the desk. “The original timeline stands. Six weeks for permits, two months for inspections. If you can’t meet that, we’ll find another property.”
The seller’s lead representative shifts in his seat. “That’s not realistic given the current?—”
“Then we’re done here.” I stand. “Silas will show you out.”
They scramble to their feet, backtracking immediately, but I’m no longer interested. The property is good but not irreplaceable. And I have better things to do than listen to excuses.
After they leave, I check my phone. No messages from Savannah. She should be back from shopping by now.
I dial her number. It rings four times before going to voicemail.
Probably trying on clothes or looking at baby furniture. She gets absorbed in those things, loses track of time.
I return to the contracts on my desk. The Rome expansion needs my signature, and there’s a shipment manifest from Eastern Europe that requires review. Numbers and logistics. The legitimate side of my empire that keeps everything else running smoothly.
My phone rings. Alexi.
“Yeah?”
“Hey, quick question. What did Savannah end up buying today? I want to see the nursery stuff she picked out.”
I pause, pen hovering over paper. “What?”
“The shopping trip. She said she was looking at cribs and changing tables. Did she find anything good?”
“When did she say this?”
“This morning. Around eleven. She told me she was going shopping for nursery furniture.” There’s confusion in his voice now. “Why? Is something wrong?”
I’m pulling up the tracker on my phone. The app that monitors Savannah’s location through her cell signal.
The pin drops on Marelli’s Restaurant.
Not a furniture store. Not a baby boutique. A restaurant.
“Dad? You there?”
“Where exactly did she say she was going?”
“Just shopping. She didn’t specify where. Said it would be a couple hours.” Alexi’s tone shifts. “What’s going on?”
I zoom in on the map. Her phone has been at Marelli’s for forty-three minutes. And according to the surveillance reports Silas sends me daily, Mason Porter was spotted in that area two hours ago.
Ice floods my veins.
“She’s not shopping,” I say quietly. “She’s meeting Mason.”
“What? No. She wouldn’t?—”
“She lied to you. Told you she was shopping so you wouldn’t follow her.” I’m already grabbing my jacket, heading for the door. “Call Silas. Tell him to get every available man to Marelli’s. Now.”
