What the fuck was Lyla thinking?
My phone buzzed again. Henri.
Delgado’s guy isn’t so sure she skipped town.
I’ll keep you posted.
I typed fast:Leave no stone unturned. I don’t care what it takes. I want eyes on every street corner she ever walked.
My head was a fucking mess. I’d spent days keeping my distance, telling myself she was a complication I didn’t need. But the second I’d learned she vanished, it felt like the air had been ripped out of my lungs.
I should’ve had her chipped.
I should’ve never come to Boston.
I should’ve—
Fuck!
The elevator doors closed. I swiped the room key and leaned back against the wall, crossing my arms. My temples were starting to throb.
I didn’t have time for this. Not now. Not with Luca breathing down my neck about syndicate business. Not with a war breaking out. And certainly not with Delgado sniffing around my business and stealing from my warehouse.
But there was the truth of it.
Lyla Laine—or Lacey Grace or whatever the hell her real name was—had gotten under my skin so deep I couldn’t think straight. And now she was gone.
And I was losing my goddamn mind.
I slammed the door to my hotel room, shoved the laptop bag onto the desk, and shrugged off my jacket.
The drinks hadn’t taken the edge off my temper. The rooftop air hadn’t helped, nor had Brooke’s wandering hands. I’d left her there, confused and pouting, because the second I’d seen Henri’s message, my focus had narrowed onto one thing.
Finding Lyla.
I yanked open the laptop, my fingers flying across the keyboard before I even sat down. Henri’s updates scrolled across the screen—camera feeds from every street surrounding the theater and most of Hell’s Kitchen. They’d tracked her leaving her apartment. There she was, bundled in layers under the coat I’d given her, looking like the Michelin Man, her backpack stuffed full.
She’d planned this.
She went to rehearsal like she was supposed to. Checked in and did what she normally did. Left the studio with the cast.
But then?
Nothing.
No footage of her exiting. No phone activity after 11:37 p.m. No movement was detected from any of the cameras of nearbybusinesses. My guys had eyes on every door. Henri had pulled his entire unit in to sweep the building. Still no sign of her.
I pulled city surveillance cameras and even checked for heat signatures in underground tunnels in the area. I ran facial recognition scans everywhere within a three-block radius of Playwright’s Haven.
Nothing.
It was as if the girl had actually vanished.
I raked a hand down my face and sank back in the chair.
But I wasn’t going to give up this easily. I growled under my breath and leaned forward to check the feed from her apartment building. Her roommates were home, but there was no sign she’d returned.
Delgado’s guy, the one who’d been tailing her, looked just as lost as I felt. Henri’s team had intercepted some of his conversations and learned that he was doing everything he could to find her, but Delgado was pissed as hell.
