It rings three times until he picks up. “It’s my one motherfucking day to sleep in, Davenport. Seriously?”
“We need to talk, Mase.”
“What’s wrong?” His voice sharpens. “Put Madeline on the phone right this second.”
I swallow my irritation. “Calm down and listen.”
“Nate…” His breathing goes heavy. I can practically feel the heat of his temper through the phone.
“I don’t have many details yet, but it’s safe to think that either me, Leo, or Madeline has a stalker, or someone was hired to watch one of us.”
“I’m on my way.”
Of course he is.
“I thought so.”
“Tell me exactly what you know.”
I do. Every last detail I have right now, every move we’ve made since getting back together. Every client who has an issue with Leo or myself.
He starts rattling off names, and I know he’s feeling the same guilt as I do.
Two very public lives, both blaming ourselves that we can’t stay away from the paparazzi or the gossip columns.
A car door slams, then I hear Mason talking to a driver.
“You’re getting driven here?”
“No. Helicopter. I’m in an Uber. I know a guy who knows a guy. He’ll be ready to leave from Penn’s Landing helipad as soon as he does all his checks. He lives in Rittenhouse Square, too, so he’ll be quick.”
“What’s the flight time? Forty-five from Philly?”
“Give or take, it depends on whether we get clearance for the Tribeca helipad. We’ll find out soon.”
“All right.” I drag a hand through my hair. “I’ll alert security. Maddie will probably still be asleep when you get here, so be quiet.”
“How is she?” he asks, his voice softer now. “She called me last night.”
“She’s been out cold every time I’ve checked. Definitely sick overnight, but I’ve been up since four and haven’t heard her move.”
“Good. See you soon.”
The line goes dead.
An hour crawls by, and I want to throw up, not because I’ve caught the bug, but because I’m sick with anxiety.
Where the fuck is my brother?
I’ve called at least ten more times, and his phone now goes straight to voicemail.
Matteo has no update and tells me I need to give him more than sixty minutes. The logical part of me knows he’s right, while the rest of me is barely hanging on, desperately needing answers.
That’s it, I can’t take it…I get up and pour myself a drink before I start pulling out my hair.
Both of my hands are shaking, causing the scotch to slosh over the side.
Fuck. Me.
