I’m almost sure that inside that car is… Lake Nolan.
His profile is a bit shadowed and his face looks small in the photo, but he really does resemble Lake! Either I’m hallucinating or this is his doppelgänger.
The worst part is that there are probably two people inside, both unconscious. I see the outline of another body beside the blond one, but I can’t make out the details, the photo is too dark. Still, I have the impression it’s another omega.
The alpha, also caught in the picture, looks eerie, honestly like some kind of gangster with his black suit, dark glasses, and that grim, blank expression.
What now? What to do?
Call the police? Or Bay?
My hand trembles as I dial Bay’s number, but even though I call nonstop, ten, twenty, thirty rings… he doesn’t pick up.
I try calling Lake too. Nothing.
That’s strange. Lake always picked up right away, which only makes it more likely it was him, though of course it isn’t a hundred percent proof.
What could have happened?
What am I supposed to do now?
I crouch there, hesitating.
Yep, I should call the police. I open the list of emergency numbers and stare at it, but for some reason I feel this internal resistance every time I try to tap the number. Something literally stops me.
There’s one person I could call, someone who might actually help me. I’m sure he has access to vehicle registration databases and can track the car, because he’s done it before.
Ennio Ferro.
Unfortunately, I don’t have his number. I only know he’s the CEO of the real estate development company that built my house, getting his personal contact info feels almost impossible. But I have to try.
I look up the company’s website and find the customer service number. I call and ask if there’s any way to contact Mr. Ferro regarding something extremely urgent, but of course I get a polite refusal. I ask if they can at least tell him that Alex Strada called, but again I get a firm yet polite no.
Finally, I start to beg the consultant, my voice shaking, telling him this is a matter of life and death and that if they tell Ennio, he definitely won’t be mad about being bothered. The consultant doesn’t respond to that and simply ends the call.
I curse in frustration.
Gripping my phone, I sit on the curb, thinking deep. Maybe I should just try the police? Why complicate the matter?
Damn it, I’m not giving up yet!
Who could help me get Ferro’s number? Maybe the Lowens. Rich people probably cross paths with mafia types at charity events and all those fancy gatherings where everyone likes to show up and throw money around.
But as I sit there debating with myself, my phone suddenly starts ringing.
It’s an unknown number.
I answer, and I hear…
Ennio’s voice.
"It’s really not a good idea to try to reach me through my consultants, Alex," Ennio says coldly.
"Oh the merciful Fate! Thank you for calling back. I just witnessed something extremely disturbing! Can I send you a picture? It’s a photo of a car that, in my opinion, has Bay’s dad, Lake Nolan, inside, being kidnapped by someone who looks like a mafia soldier! Though of course I could be wrong. I also have the license plate."
There’s a moment of deep silence, and then Ennio says, "Send me the photos."
I quickly pick the best shots along with the one with the license plate and send them to him.
