“This is my world, Amara. It’s dirty and fucked up. And right now, Tristan has your brother. Chances are, he doesn’t even look like that photo right now.”
“What do you mean?”
“Think about it,” he says as he shoves the gun in his pants. “It’s been, what? Ten minutes since that photo was taken. I’d be shocked if he isn’t bleeding out of his ears or missing teeth or fingernails because he refuses to talk.”
“Talk about what?” I cry out in horror.
“How he can get hold of you.”
With that, Ransome tugs the door open and sets the lock. “Do me a favor. Let me do my job. Your job right now is to stay here.”
“But—”
“Just stay here.”
And then he’s gone. Out the door, with a gun to go after Tristan. Who has my brother.My brother.
Gianni is tied to a chair somewhere and Tristan, who will stop at nothing to hurt Ransome and the Rozanov family, has my little brother.
I collapse on the floor, my head swirling with painful what-ifs and my heart throbbing in my chest at the possibilities of what could happen. Of what he might do. I mean, the man flat-out admitted that Nik’s death was at his hands.
But Ransome doesn’t know that. I didn’t get a chance to tell him. Last night, I let my body get the better of me and then fell asleep like an idiot. I didn’t tell him that Tristan came to see me twice, that he basically confessed Nik’s murder to me, that he gave me an ultimatum for myself and my siblings.
And it hits me.
If Tristan would kill Nik, a kid whose death would start a war between the two families, hurting or even killing Gianni would be a wave of the hand for him. He could do it without blinking, without a thought at all.
I double over, dryer heaving onto the floor. I’ve spent a lifetime taking care of and protecting my younger siblings. I thought my dad was the devil. I had no idea. And now I might lose one of them, all because I got caught up in the Rozanov family and the fucking Bratva.Caught up in Ransome.
I stop. My hands are braced on the cold floor. I stop throwing up, I stop crying, I even stop breathing. A wave washes over me. But it isn’t fear or worry or panic at all.
It’s anger.
I come to my feet and intentionally walk into Ransome’s office. There, in the drawer, I find the burner phone. I don’t have his location on my own phone—he won’t share it with me—but this phone is linked to him. This phone will tell me where he is.
This phone will tell me where Gianni is.
And that’s where I am going to go.
Stay heremy ass.
59
RANSOME
I’m walking into a trap.
I’m not stupid. I know that’s what this is. Tristan wants to duke it out, not in the way our dads would do it. Not over drinks with agreements of truce and big words and heavy stares. Tristan wants a fight. He used bait, lured me in, and I know that walking through the doors of the warehouse where he is holding Gianni hostage is idiotic. It’s dark, unfamiliar, and I am at a complete disadvantage.
But I have to get to him. I know what it’s like first hand to lose a brother, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let Amara feel anything even close to that in her lifetime.
I walk into the open space of the building. It’s an old, abandoned warehouse on the waterfront, smack in the middle of Chadovich territory, and it smells like fish and cocaine. They must process here. It’s empty and dark, except for a flickering light in the distance hanging over a wilted silhouette.
Gianni.
I walk at a steady space, my eyes sweeping the room methodically as I do. I am aware that he is probably lurking in the shadows. His men might be with him, waiting for me to cross a certain line so they can jump me or take out a kneecap with a well-calculated bullet. But I reach the flickering light unscathed.
Gianni is tied to the chair, hunched over. He’s bound, gagged, the usual. I place a hand on his back and he jumps so hard, the chair nearly falls over. Every muscle in his body flexes as he prepares to fight.
