She nods, trusting me completely now. “What are we going to do about?—?”
“I’ll tell you everything,” I promise. “About Coral. And how we’re going to get her back.”
And I will.
23
AMBER
The table is covered in photographs.
I stand there staring at them, my hands hovering uselessly over the glossy paper, afraid that if I touch them they’ll vanish. Like this is all some elaborate trick my brain is playing on me after the adrenaline crash.
But it isn’t.
It’s Coral.
Three years older. Thinner. The sharp angles of her face more pronounced, shadows sitting under her eyes like she hasn’t slept properly in a long time. Her hair is shorter, darker. Her smile, when she manages one, looks practiced, careful.
She’s alive. It’s all that matters to me.
My throat tightens so hard it hurts.
“She’s here,” I whisper. “She was here all along.”
Giovanni stands behind me, close enough that I can feel him without looking. Solid. Real.
“Yes,” he says.
I swallow and force myself to keep looking.
Next to Coral in several of the pictures is a man I don’t recognize. Dark hair. Broad shoulders. His hand is always positioned just a little too close to her arm, her back, her waist.
Possessive.
“Who is that?” I ask.
“Georg Pavlov,” Giovanni answers. “Anton’s brother.”
The name clicks into place with a sickening snap.
“Anton,” I breathe. “The one who tried to force-marry Rose.”
“Yes.”
“He stalked her,” I say slowly. “Back then. He decided he wanted her, so he sent Sasha to follow her and grab her.”
Giovanni nods. “When Anton was set to marry rich, Georg saw an opportunity to do whatever the hell he wanted. And when Brooklyn ran—when Rose escaped—he went through with it anyway, but in secret.”
My stomach churns. “He married Coral,” I breathe. “Against her wishes.”
“Quietly,” Giovanni says. “No announcements. No witnesses outside their circle. No records that matter.”
I close my eyes for a second.
“He keeps her at his home,” he continues. “Hidden. Lorenzo says it’s not looking good.”
Fear punches through me, sharp and sudden.
