“Jesus.” She finally throws the blankets off and sits up. “Any idea where they went?”
“If I knew that, I wouldn’t be standing here. Where does Tristan take people?”
“What kinds of people?” she asks. “People he wants to work for him? People he wants to fuck? People he wants to kill? Be specific.”
I’m shaking at this point. With rage, powerlessness, but most of all, a bone-deep dread that I’m never going to see them again. Not Amara, not our child. “Do not make me answer that question.”
Jenica takes in a deep breath and lets it back out. “Tristan has a string of underground bars that he hangs out at. Places that either look too seedy for high-class Bratva affiliation, which is kind of the M.O., or places that you can’t see from the street. Hole-in-the-wall places. You’ll never find them if you don’t know where they are.” She rakes a hand through her hair. “He also has warehouses out of the lower docks by the shut-down fish hatchery where he does production. He chose the location because people tend to stay away from it.”
“Why’s that?”
“Hello? Fish hatchery?” She snorts. “It stinks to high heaven.”
An old fish hatchery. It would be the perfect place to lie low. The ideal spot to keep two women you’ve kidnapped and have no one get nosy about it.
“Where is it?”
“I told you. By the old fish?—”
“I need exact location,” I snap.
“Yeah, well, I don’t know the exact location!” she snaps back. “Women aren’t exactly a part of the day-to-day wheeling and dealing. Everything I know is from eavesdropping at family dinners and parties. And I’m telling you everything I know.”
I wipe my hand down my face. It’s not all I was hoping for, but for now, it’ll have to be enough. “Fine.”
“Can I go back to sleep now?”
“No. I’m not done with you.”
“Fine. But I’m going to need a cup of coffee if I have to work this late. Or early.”
I’m too wired to argue with that. God knows I need a hot mug in my hands, too.
Medium Americano. Splash of cream. No sugar.
I clench my fists and force myself not to think of Amara. If I let myself panic, it’s over. For all of us. She needs me to be lucid, and I won’t let her down by having a pointless freakout while there’s still something to be done.
I will get her back. I will get our child back.
As we make our way into the kitchen, my phone buzzes.
“What is it?” Jenica asks.
Then she looks at my screen.
It’s a text from an unknown number. A text containing a photo.
My guts twist as I look at it. Amara is on a cement floor. Her hands are bound and her face is twisted.
UNKNOWN: Looking for something?
I don’t have to wonder whose number it is.
Tristan fucking Chadovich.
“Jesus,” Jenica lets out. I can’t say she’s ever been a fan of Amara, but a sigh like that would make anyone’s stomach lurch. God knows the things it’s doing to mine. “Okay, now what?”
I chew my lip hard enough to bite it off. I am fuming. Livid to the point of my vision blurring. But I’m not going to lose it.
