Aronne coughed, blood bubbling up past his lips. Probably Santino had punctured a lung with one of the ribs he’d surely broken.
Armando’s urgent baritone cut through the moment. “Boss.”
Santino rocked backward enough to turn his head.
Ciro still held a gun raised, as if he’d become a statue, his eyes glued on Santino and Aronne, his expression grim but non-combative. Ciro was not the reason Armando had called Santino’s attention.
Armando moved forward enough to be fully visible and lifted his burner—the phone he brought with him for emergencycommunication when Santino held his off-the-books meetings. And for a man who’d been at Santino’s side for forever, the concern on his face was far too plain. “There’s a problem at the house.”
Santino blinked slowly, the world crawling to a screeching stop.
A problem at the house. At the should-be-highly-secure home where he’d left his new, beautiful, largely unaware fiancée. A problem at the house meant Reiko was in danger.
A problem at the house meant Santino was going to drown St. Louis in blood if she’d shed so much as a drop.
A strained, wet laugh bubbled up from the prone figure in front of him. When Santino turned his gaze downward, the last piece of the puzzle clicked. Blood stained Aronne’s lips, but he still managed to smile like a predator who’d caught its prey.
Santino heaved a hard breath and surged to his feet. “Freddie”—he pointed for unnecessary emphasis at the trash already dying at his feet—“take both of these fuckers and learn everything you can from them. Then send them for a long swim. I don’t ever want to see their pictures again, is that fucking clear?”
Freddie tucked away his gun. “Yes, Boss.”
“Anyone you don’t trust with your children’s lives, you don’t trust with this.” Freddie had two small kids. They were the only people he’d ever been seen smiling for as far as Santino knew.
Freddie nodded sharply. “Keep the circle skintight, understood.”
Santino spun in place, walking and talking. “Ciro, you wanna prove yourself?”
“Just give me a chance, Boss.”
“Come with me, do exactly as you’re fucking told, and do not make me fucking regret it”—he turned again in order to meetCiro’s watchful stare—“or you’ll wish you’d pulled that trigger without permission.”
Ciro exhaled hard and lowered his gun. “Understood.”
Santino resumed his path, raising his voice. “If we find anyone at the house who doesn’t belong, I want them fucking crippled and lined up on the lawn!” And if anything had happened to Reiko, he’d kill the ones who did belong, too, just for allowing it. “Armando, reach out to house security and find out what the hell we’re coming home to.” Arguably he should have made that call, but he had other priorities.
As soon as he retrieved his phone from the SUV, he pulled up her number.
It didn’t ring. He called repeatedly, and every time, it went straight to voicemail.
“Fuck!”
The phone buzzed in his hand right as he pulled his arm back to pitch the useless thing across the car, and Santino stilled. That was a text.
Reiko’s phone was clearly off or dead. She wouldn’t be texting, not unless she’d both memorized his number and gained access to a new device. In an emergency, most of his men knew to make calls for quicker communication.
Still, Santino drew a breath in an effort to clear the rage from his mind and looked again at the screen. What he thought people understood and what a man might actually do were not always the same. Plus, there was the chance it was something else, unrelated and poorly timed.
The message was from an unfamiliar, suspicious number. And his gut plummeted.
I seem to have something of yours…
The message was followed by the least-sexy picture of his beloved Reiko he’d ever seen. She was gagged and blindfolded,bound at the wrists and ankles with her arms held behind her back, and lying motionless on her side on what looked like a tarp. Her hair had become a rat’s nest, the camera flash had reflected off of tear stains smeared down her cheek, and most petrifying of all—she had been stripped down to her bra and panties. But even so disheveled, he didn’t need to see the scar so prominent on her abdomen to know the woman in the photo was her.
Another text came in while he scrutinized the image, for clues as well as signs of true injury.
If you want her back, keep your phone charged. I’ll be in touch.
A growl rolled past Santino’s lips and he didn’t think twice before punching the buttons to call the number back. The line rang four times in his ear before clicking and disconnecting. He supposed he hadn’t expected them to answer. So, he returned to the text thread.
