“No,” Sophia whispers, her hand flying to her mouth. “No, that’s impossible.”
The man in the video looks directly at the camera. “Sophia,” he says, his voice cracking. “It’s me. It’s Tony. I’m alive.”
The video cuts to black, replaced by a text message.Your brother for your surrender. You have 48 hours.
Sophia’s legs give out, and I catch her before she hits the ground. She’s shaking, her eyes wide with shock and disbelief.
“Tony,” she breathes. “My brother. He’s alive. Lorenzo has my brother!”
21
SOPHIA
The nausea hits me the moment I see Tony’s face on that screen.
At first, I think it’s shock, the impossible reality of my brother alive after six years of believing him dead.
But as I lean over the warehouse sink, retching up the meager breakfast I managed to eat this morning, I realize this feeling has been building for days.
The exhaustion that drags at my bones.
The way certain smells make my stomach turn.
The tenderness in my breasts that I’ve been ignoring.
Stress. This has to be due to all the stress I’ve been under.
“Sophia.” Mikhail’s hand is warm on my back, steadying me. “We’ll get him back. I promise you.”
I rinse my mouth and straighten, pushing the physical symptoms aside. I can deal with that later.
Right now, my brother is alive and in Lorenzo’s hands, and that’s all that matters.
“How?” My voice comes out raw. “How is he alive? I saw the police report.”
He was burned beyond recognition, so I couldn’t identify his body by sight. But still. The DNA tests matched. The body was in Tony’s car, and even fragments of his wallet had been found.
Marco shifts uncomfortably near the doorway. “Lorenzo must have staged it. Paid off the right people, found a body that matched Tony’s description. It wouldn’t be hard for someone with his resources.”
The room spins slightly, and I grip the edge of the sink. Mikhail’s arm comes around my waist immediately, supporting me.
His green eyes search my face with concern that makes my chest ache.
“When did you last eat?” he asks.
“This morning.” The lie comes easily. I can’t remember the last meal I didn’t pick through. “I’m fine. We need to focus on Tony.”
But I’m not fine.
My brother has been Lorenzo’s prisoner for six years. Six years of god knows what kind of torture he’s suffered.
“We go in tonight,” Mikhail says, his voice hard with determination. “Lorenzo’s expecting us to wait, to plan. We hit him while he thinks we’re still reeling.”
Ricardo Castellano arrives an hour later with his best men. We spread maps across the makeshift table, marking entry points and escape routes.
The building where Lorenzo is holding Tony is an old textile factory on the east side, the same place where we rescued Melinda.
Lorenzo is nothing if not predictable in his cruelty.
