The blood roars in my ears as fear and disbelief settle in my chest. “What the fuck did you just say?”
“The car crashed into the water.”
I shove Carlisle against the wall, my vision turning red. “How the hell did they make it off the estate?”
I want to pummel whoever’s responsible for this mess, but this has Katia written all over it.
My assassin is the only person capable of coming and going as she pleases.
Maybe my father was right, and I’ve given her too much leeway.
In all the years I’ve known her, I’ve never seen Katia waver, and I admire London for pulling off the impossible. I wrench the door open and stride out, ignoring my father and brother calling out to me.
There’s a loud cacophony of voices and a blur of faces and colors as I stride out the front door, my only thought of London and her safety. A moment later, a black car pulls up outside the main door, and I jump into the back. I’m barking out orders, but nothing I say makes any sense. Carlisle sits in the passenger seat, and I hear something about a search party, but I’m not listening.
All I can picture is London’s face frozen in terror as water fills the space around her.
I’m going to wring Katia’s neck.
How in the hell did she let this happen?
With a growl, I press the button for the partition between us, silencing the rest of Carlisle’s sentence. I clench and unclench my hands as a headache builds and pounds in the back of my skull. When I squeeze my eyes shut again, it’s not London’s face I see in my mind. Instead, I see my mother’s pale face lying on a king-sized bed.
I imagine a window open in the master bedroom, and a warm breeze wafting in while tiny particles of light dance on hardwood floors. Then I hear my mother’s voice, and I feel her small and cool fingers close around mine, her bright eyes begging me to save Oliver. I swallow, and I can still see the desperation and fear written in her eyes.
I blink again, and my mother’s face turns to London’s, and even though her mouth is moving, no words are being formed.
With a little more force than necessary, I pour myself a generous amount of whiskey and take a long sip. I glance out thewindow and take another sip, hoping it’ll chase away my guilt and confusion.
I have to keep my promise to my mother, but I have no idea how to do that without endangering London.
How am I supposed to navigate this mess?
With a scowl, I shove the car door open without waiting for the car to stop. Carlisle falls into step behind me as I peer over the side of the bridge and into the rushing water. A tow truck nearby is pulling the car from the wreckage. There’s a bitter taste in my mouth as I make my way under the bridge, my heart sputtering when I spot the trail of blood.
I stop breathing as I kneel on the bank in front of the water and study the scene. Slowly, I rise to my feet when I spot two pairs of footsteps, and the air whooshes back into my lungs. A heartbeat later, I turn to face Carlisle.
London isn’t dead. She can’t be.
“Spread out and find them,” I say calmly. “Bring me whoever is responsible for this. I’m going to nail their goddamn balls to the wall.”
Carlisle doesn’t say anything.
“What the fuck are you waiting for?”
It takes every ounce of self-control I have not to take my anger out on everyone around me. I examine the blood stains and keep myself from imagining the worst. My men are still searching the area when Carlisle returns, dragging someone by their neck. The man’s hands are bound behind his back, and there’s a bag draped over his head.
I pull it off, and other than a few scrapes and bruises, our prisoner is intact.
As his eyes meet mine, I punch him in the stomach. Carlisle yanks his head back, and tears spring to the man’s eyes, but he says nothing. I punch him over and over, the crunch like music to my ears. On the fifth punch, the man lets out a wheeze, and itclears some of the bloodlust darkening my vision. My knuckles are raw, and the man has blood streaming down the sides of his face, but it does nothing to quell my anger.
“He was found surveying the area nearby,” Carlisle tells me, in a low voice. “He’s one of the Fitzpatrick men. I’ve seen him a few times. There was a car too, but it drove off. Some of my men are chasing it now.”
I turn back to the man and give him a cruel smile. “You can either talk now or later. It doesn’t make a damn difference to me. I’m going to have my fun anyway.”
The prisoner stares at me through his good eye, blood already caking on the side of his mouth. “I’m not going to say a damn thing.”
“I was going to give you a quick death,” I say, “but since you’ve offered nothing useful, I’m going to let my men have their fun with you once I’m done.”
