“Pennsylvania,” I supplied helpfully as Steven grunted, “New Jersey.” The officer’s brows knitted, and I rushed to add, “We’re taking the scenic route through West Virginia. A road trip… you know, sort of a family vacation.” I took Steven’s arm in mine, pinching him through his sleeve before he could utter a word about why we’d circumnavigated the entire state of Maryland to get here. “See, our son accidentally lost his blanket out of the window as we were driving. He’s two,” I explained, gesturing to the shredded fabric snapping in the wind at the edge of the median.
The trooper planted his hands on his belt, the sides of his jacket spreading around it, revealing his holster and his handcuffs as he squinted across the highway to see Zach’s woobie. “I sure hope your husband wasn’t planning on trying to retrieve it.”
“He’s not my husband,” I corrected.
Steven turned to me with a look of disgust. “Is it really necessary to point that out?”
“And of course he wouldn’t attempt to retrieve it,” I added with a stern look at him, “because that would be a completely idiotic thing to do.”
“Not to mention illegal,” the trooper said.
“Exactly! I was just telling him the same thing, but my ex—”
“Husband,” Steven interjected.
“—can be a little bullheaded when it comes to listening to me. I told him we should just buy another blanket.”
“You can’t just replace something like that!” Steven snapped. “Zach doesn’t want a new blanket! That one is comfortable. It’s familiar. It has history! But apparently, history doesn’t mean anything to you.”
“The blanket isn’t worth saving, Steven.”
“Our children believe it’s worth saving, and so do I!”
The trooper stepped in front of him as Steven pivoted toward the highway. “Put one foot over that line, sir, and we’re going to have a problem. I understand wanting to look like a hero for your kids, but they don’t want to see their father splattered all over the highway, and I’dsure hate to have to arrest you in front of them. Your family is better off if you just let it go.”
“Would it be such a crime to let him try?” Vero called through the open window. My mother clapped a hand over Vero’s mouth.
Steven’s jaw clenched. I tugged him toward my mother’s SUV before he could give the trooper one more reason to arrest him. “Thank you for stopping to check on us, Officer. It was very kind of you. We’ll just be going.” We had a woobie to replace. Oh, and a stolen car to find, a boyfriend to rescue, a mob boss to avoid, and a painfully long road to Atlantic City still ahead of us.
CHAPTER 1
NINE HOURS EARLIER
Vero hadn’t so much as glanced up from the ransom note in her hand since we’d left her cousin’s garage, when she’d handed me the keys to one of Ramón’s loaner cars and slumped down in the passenger seat, reading and rereading the single sentence on the sheet of paper like it was a puzzle that might solve itself if she stared at it long enough. I turned down the long gravel drive, checking the number on the rusted mailbox against the address printed on the custody agreement my ex’s attorney had sent me before the holidays. As I rounded the last bend, I breathed a sigh of relief when Steven’s F-150 came into view.
I pulled the loaner car beside it and cut off the engine, ducking in my seat to get a better look at the two-story farmhouse as I took a moment to collect myself. It was eight thirtyA.M. on a Friday in late January, but it felt like an entire year had passed since I’d seen my children yesterday.
“We should figure out exactly what we’re going to tell him before we go in,” I said, raking my soot-stained hair from my face, “to make sure we’re on the same page so he doesn’t suspect anything.” I checked myreflection in the rearview mirror. A pair of raccoon eyes stared back at me, and I wiped them with my smoke-blackened fingers. “Vero?” When she didn’t answer, I snatched the ransom note from her hand, folded it up, and stuffed it in the glove box. “Dwelling on that note isn’t helping.”
“They’re going to kill him, Finn,” she said in a small voice. A voice that should not, under any circumstances, come out of a mouth as big as Vero’s. An hour ago, she’d been cussing up a bilingual storm of expletives, threatening murder in two languages, ready to roll up to Atlantic City in body armor on the back of a white horse, rescue her childhood crush, and kick someone’s ass.
But then we’d found the ransom note tucked under the windshield wiper of Javi’s van:
You have seventy-two hours to pay back what you owe.
There had been no phone number on the note. No name. Vero hadn’t needed one.
She’d paled upon reading it, as if Javi were already dead. But she was moving through the five stages of grief way too fast, and she was skipping the most important one: bargaining.
“They’re not going to kill him. It’s not a condolence card, Vero. It’s a ransom note, which means Javi is alive and they want to negotiate.”
“We don’t have anything to negotiate with! If it was just about the two hundred grand, we could borrow it. Or steal it. Or come up with some kind of an installment plan using my inessential body parts for payment. But that’s not what Marco wants.”
“He’s a loan shark and you’re in debt to him. Of course that’s what he wants.”
“Marco got every penny I owed him and more when his goons stole the Aston Martin from us.”
The Aston Martin Superleggera that had been “gifted” to me by a Russian mob boss felt more like a stone around our necks. If it hadn’tbeen purchased by the mobster and registered in my name, I probably would have let Marco keep the damn thing. But since our names were on the title and Vero’s boyfriend was in the trunk, we had two very compelling reasons to find it.
