The room suddenly feels very small.
Somewhere in the distance, sirens wail. Or maybe that’s just my blood rushing in my ears.
I cling to him anyway, because right now, he’s the only thing between me and the dark.
14
GIOVANNI
She comes apart in my arms.
It’s neither quiet nor graceful. It’s grief stripped down to muscle and breath, to sobs that tear out of her chest like something feral. She clutches at me and shakes, words tumbling over each other, barely coherent.
“She didn’t run,” Amber keeps saying. “She wouldn’t have run. I knew it. I knew it.”
Her voice breaks completely on the last word.
Coral.
The name is all over her, in every shuddering breath, in the way her fingers dig into my coat like she’s afraid the world will pull her under if she lets go. This isn’t fear anymore. This is confirmation. Proof made of broken furniture and red paint.
I hold her tighter, one arm firm around her back, the other cradling her head against my chest. I keep my stance wide, solid, the way I’ve learned to do when things get violent. When something needs containing.
“You were right,” she sobs. “Someone took her. They took her and no one listened to me. No one ever listens.”
I close my eyes for half a second.
This is exactly why I didn’t want her digging into anything dangerous. Exactly why I warned her not to go looking herself.
But the damage is done. And before she even had the chance to disobey my orders.
Which means Matteo was right to keep Rose’s location under wraps.
Someone is watching Amber. Someone other than myself. And while it might not be connected to Rose’s situation at all, the signs here are clear.
Whoever did this is the man who took Coral.
I open my eyes and reach for my phone with my free hand.
“Get here,” I say quietly when my man answers. “Now. Lock the building down. Sweep every apartment above and below. I want eyes on the docks too.”
I hang up before he can ask questions.
Amber is still crying, her face buried against me. I can feel the tremor in her body start to edge toward something worse. Shock. Collapse.
I can’t let her stay here.
I slide an arm under her knees and lift her cleanly off the floor. She gasps in protest, instinct flaring even through the grief.
“No,” she says hoarsely. “I don’t want to leave. I can’t—this is her room.”
“It’s not safe,” I tell her. “Not anymore.”
She twists weakly in my arms, hands fisting in my coat again. “You can’t make me.”
I stop.
The words aren’t loud. They don’t need to be.
