Cash shrugs. “Her parents might be loaded. What did Cassian find on her?”
Something prickles at the back of my neck. “He came up with nothing when he did a basic search. Now he’s following trails.”
My phone rings right then, and I hold it up to show Cash the screen.
“Speaking of Cassian,” I say, accepting the call. “What do you have for me?”
“Still looking, but that phone number you gave me is a burner, so that gave me nothing. The house is owned by LR Corp. There are no individual names on the deed. I looked into LR Corp and didn’t find anything. So right now, I’m catching dead ends, but I’ll keep digging.”
My stomach twists, and I sit silently, marinating on that information.
LR Corp.
What the fuck is that?
Sucking air through my teeth, I glance at Cash, who looks just as confused.
“You said she was in an accident last year? Where?” Cassian asks.
Shaking my head, I close my eyes. “I don’t know. I didn’t ask her.”
Because I was too busy trying to fuck her as much as possible, because I thought I only had one night with her.
Cassian sighs. “You’re not much help, man. I’ll keep searching.”
He ends the call, and I sit in silence, still trying to wrap my head around what he told me.
“Go over there and demand answers. Fuck, we can kidnap her if you want. I guess I owe you since you helped kidnap my wife,” Cash says before draining the rest of his drink and standing.
“I’m not kidnapping her, you fucking psychopath. Jesus Christ.”
My oldest brother chuckles. “I offered.”
“Do you think Jordyn will let me look at her HR paperwork?” I ask.
Cash grins and nods. “Now, who’s the psycho? Come on. I’ll bribe her somehow.”
An hour later, I have Ace’s employment file in my email, which I forward to Cassian. It’s not right to look at it. Hell, it’s fucking illegal. And it might even be a tiny bit stalkerish. I don’t care, though. Ace isn’t being truthful about something, and I’m going to find out what it is. Then, after I make sure she’s feeling better, I’m going to spank her for lying to me.
Cassian: I’m forwarding you some news articles. Her last name is Ricci, not Santoro. She’s from Seattle. Her father was a member of the Italian mafia. He died when she was a child. Might be why she goes by an alias.
I slowly steermy SUV toward the side of the road and put it in park to read Cassian’s message again before I tap my email app on my phone.
Every limb in my body goes ice cold as photos and news articles appear in the message.
Lacey Ricci, known to be associated with the North American Italian crime family, nearly killed in crash thought to be a hit.
Lacey Ricci, 24, on life support after a horrific crash.
Ballerina, Lacey Ricci, undergoes emergency surgery to repair femur and hip after drunk-driving crash that killed one.
Prima ballerina’s career comes to a screeching end due to severe injuries she’ll never fully recover from.
Headline after headline, a picture paints itself in my mind, but then, I click on another attachment, and I can’t fucking breathe.
Photos of the accident, of Lacey being pulled from the wreckage, her much-too-thin body covered in crimson as multiple medics give her CPR. Her hair looks blond in the pictures, though it’s hard to tell for sure from how much blood there was.
“Holy fuck,” I mutter, my eyes burning as I keep going over all the information Cassian sent.
