Luke is out of rehab. He got released yesterday, which is why I text him and asked him to go to Mom’s next weekend too.
It’s time to pull together as a family.
I don’t like the Beckett brothers, but I have to admire the way they work together. The loyalty that they share. Their business ethic. If they hadn’t intervened in my business, hell, I’d probably even admire them.
I knock back the whiskey, wincing as it burns.
Fuck. I rub my chest. That feeling again. That feeling that something shifted hits me like a hammer.
My fingers tighten around the empty glass.
Heartburn?
No, it feels more like a heart attack.
Something’s up.
Instinctively, I pluck my phone from my pocket and dial Zara.
It rings out.
I tap the screen again and redial. I know she’s with a client, but I need to know she’s okay. That our baby is okay. She told me herself, Beckett code—two rings and we have a problem, so if she doesn’t pick up in the next ten seconds, then we have a colossal fucking problem.
I run out of my office door and straight into Gabriel. ‘Boss?’
‘We need to get to Ballsbridge. Now,’ I snap, running towards the stairs. There’s no time for the lift.
‘Right away,’ Gabriel is hot on my heels as we take the stairs two at a time.
Holmes is outside in the SUV. He takes one look at my face and starts the car. ‘Where to?’
I hop in the front beside him; Gabriel jumps into the back. ‘Zara’s building. Somethings up.’
I reach into the glove compartment for a handgun and tuck it into my pocket. Each of my vehicles are always stocked. I take a switchblade as well, just in case.
A car horn honks in the distance. Traffic is a fucking nightmare. Bumper to bumper cars line the roads. Fuck. I pull up her number and try to call her again. It rings out for the third time. I dial Tate. Then Felstead. No answer. Where the fuck is everyone?
What did she say the client was called?
Salter?
No, Slater.
That’s what she called him.
I tap open Google on my phone and type in Slater—bespoke cocktail bars. There’s nothing. I try Slater—planning permission for bars. I scroll through endless articles about cocktail bars but there’s no mention of a Slater anywhere. Nothing.
Shit.
Who the fuck was she meeting?
My phone vibrates in my hand. Incoming Call. Unknown.
I swipe to answer, silently praying to God it’s her.
‘Where’s Zara?’ A deep voice booms. I’d recognise it anywhere. Killian Beckett.
‘At her office.’
