“Isa, calm down.” Tucking my gun away, I walk to her side and circle my arm around her shoulders. She’s gone into shock, crying and shaking as I steer her out to the main living area.
Pouring her a stiff whiskey, I force her to sit on the couch with a blanket and the drink. Then I step out onto the small balcony to make a few quick calls to her mother, her father, and Dano, telling the latter to organize a cleanup crew ASAP.
“Cristian, you need to see this,” Isa says when I step back into the living room. A folder is open on her lap.
“What is it?”
“I just found it on the coffee table. It wasn’t there before, I’m sure of it.” Horror floods her eyes as she stares at something. “No!” She hops up, clutching a photo, and dropping her empty glass on the patterned carpet as the blanket pools at her feet and pictures and papers fall out of the folder. “I knew it! I knew she was up to something!”
A sense of dread washes over me as I pluck the photograph from her hand. My brain rebels at first. The woman in the picture looks like Sloane, but also doesn’t. It’s not simply that her hair is dark, not blonde, or her face looks different, and she’s heavier—still slim but not as slender as she is now. No, it’s how she looks so much younger and more carefree than the Sloane I know. There’s a light in her eyes, a warmth in her smile, an innocence in how she holds herself that I rarely see in the troubled young woman I’m in love with.
But it’s still her.
There is no doubt in my mind it’s my Sloane.
Pain mushrooms in my chest the longer I stare at it, as all kinds of hideous theories sprout in my mind. “What the fuck is this?” I question out loud, only now noticing Isa scrambling at my feet, gathering the rest of the folder contents.
“It’s all about Sloane. Look.” Isa thrusts the folder at me, and I flip through more photos and copies of SloaneBarton’sdriver’s license, passport, and college exam reports from Yale. Other paperwork is included, and some of the documents are the ones supplied as part of the recruitment process when I hired SloaneClark.
My heart is racing as all manner of thoughts run through my mind. “Why is this here?” I ask in a lethally cold tone.
“I don’t know, but Carmine’s name is on the envelope.” Isa plucks one of the report statements out. “She’s a fraud, Cristian. She took this job under false pretenses.” She jabs her finger at the report, lifting it to my face. “Fuck! Look. She was studyingdramaat Yale, not early childhood education at NYU. She’s been acting. She was totally faking it all along. Oh my god.” Isa’s gaze widens. “Where is Elio?” she cries. “Please say he’s not alone with her!”
I’m reaching for my cell phone just as it vibrates with an incoming call.
“Cristian! The cartel ambushed us!” Umberto pants into the phone. The folder drops from my hand as I rush from the apartment with the phone on speaker. “Where is Elio?” I roar, not waiting for the old elevator, taking the stairs two at a time in my haste to get to my car.
“He’s safe, boss. He’s safe. Don’t panic. Sloane’s quick thinking saved him.”
Mention of her name ignites rage unlike anything I’ve felt before. I don’t know what the fuck is going on, but it can’t be a coincidence that Carmine is murdered, a folder is deliberately planted in his apartment, and the cartel tries to take my son all on the same day. “Keep her away from my son!” I bark. “I think she’s involved in this.”
“Sir?” Confusion underscores Umberto’s tone.
“Keep Sloane away from Elio until I get there, but don’t let her leave. I want eyes on her at all times until I arrive.”
* * *
“Move, motherfuckers!” I yell, slamming my palm on the horn and keeping it there for a few beats. I do not have time to deal with Manhattan’s usual bullshit traffic. I’m frantic to get home and lay eyes on my son. I can’t relax until I do. Sitting in traffic also allows me too much time to think, and my head is a fucking mess of epic proportions. Everything I have learned is churning through my mind, and I’m struggling to make sense of it. The one thing I know for sure is Sloane has been lying to me. This is what’s been troubling her, and I want to know what the fuck is going on. She will tell me the goddamned truth, or I’ll fucking torture it out of her.
Pain stabs me in the chest at the thought. Resting my head on the steering wheel, I fight to contain the tsunami of emotions spinning me upside down. Iloveher. I gave her my whole heart, and I’ve been imagining our future with her in it, and it was all fuckinglies. I fucking love her, and she played me so skillfully I didn’t see any of this coming.
I don’t know the full extent of her involvement, but the betrayal already cuts deep.
I lift my head when my cell rings through my car system. Accepting Gia’s call, I try to tame the rage rampaging through me. My buddy’s wife doesn’t deserve to be on the receiving end of my anger. I’m reserving all that for Sloane. “Gia.”
“Cristian. Where is Elio right now?”
A fresh wave of apprehension ghosts over me. “He’s safe at the penthouse with Umberto. What don’t I know?”
“You might need to sit down for this.”
“I am sitting. I’m in the car en route home.”
“One of the team got into that smashed cell phone we found at the wedding venue. It’s a burner, and everything had been wiped except for two messages.” She clears her throat. “This is going to hurt, Cristian. Prepare yourself.”
“Spit it out, Gia,” I say through gritted teeth, already assuming this is more evidence of Sloane’s guilt.
“The cell belongs to Sloane, Cristian.” I swallow over the painful lump in my throat as I wait for the rest. “The first message is a picture, taken at the wedding, of you and Sloane dancing, followed by a message that says, verbatim, ‘Good girl. Now take him home and fuck him.’”
