The past few years blur together like a montage of dinners I never wanted to be at.
“He fishes,” I say suddenly.
Lorenzo’s brow lifts. “Fishes.”
“Yes.” I nod, more certain now. “He . . . he loves to fish. He used to talk about it like it was some spiritual thing. Like catching and releasing a fish made him a better person.”
Lorenzo’s brows knit together. “You think he has a lake house?”
“Yeah, I do. Don’t know where it would be, but it makes sense.”
Lorenzo slowly taps his fingers against the desk. “Men like him collect properties. A cottage. A lake house. Maybe something farther away for when he wants to disappear.”
My spine prickles. “Wait. Yeah, he mentioned a lake house once. He said it was quiet. That no one bothered him there.”
Lorenzo’s eyes flick to his men.
“Pull property holdings,” Lorenzo orders, voice turning crisp. “Anything tied to Grant, his family, his known associates. Shell corps. Trusts. Anything.”
The guy with the mustache nods once, already turning to the keyboard. Fingers flying.
My stomach twists as I watch.
The way Lorenzo works and takes charge is impressive. It used to terrify me, but now that I’m not his target, I can’t help but be in awe of him. He’s like a king sitting on his cruel throne.
It should scare me. But instead, it makes me feel . . . safe.
Lorenzo’s gaze returns to me. “Anything else he said about the lake house?”
I close my eyes, searching memories in my brain.
“Something about . . . cedar,” I mumble. “He said the air smelled like cedar. And that there was a dock.” My eyes snap open. “And he . . . he joked once that his neighbors were all ‘too rich to ask questions.’”
Lorenzo’s mouth curves, humorless. “That narrows it down to every lake within three states.”
“Helpful,” I chide.
He leans forward, voice gentler. “Keep going.”
My throat tightens at the softness. I hate that it affects me.
“He used to talk about some mom-and-pop bait shop,” I say suddenly.
Lorenzo’s eyes sharpen. “This is good. It would have to be close to the house for him to frequent it. This gives us a lot to go on.”
“I have a list,” the security guard says, turning his laptop monitor slightly so Lorenzo can see. “Most of it is normal—condos, an office suite, the cottage was under a trust. But . . .”His finger taps a line. “There’s a property holding under a shell corp registered out of Delaware. It’s connected to Grant’s mother’s maiden name.”
My pulse spikes. “That could be it.”
Lorenzo’s chair scrapes back slightly as he stands. “Where?”
The guard reads off an address.
Rafe pushes off the wall, already moving. “I’ll get the cars.”
Lorenzo’s hand lifts, stopping him with the gesture. “Not yet.”
Rafe pauses, brows lifting. “What?”
