“Oh, God, you don’t know where she is.” Quinn’s face pales.
I snatch my cell off the desk and shove to my feet. “Leave it with me. I’m sure she’s fine.”
She has to be. The alternative isn’t optional.
I start for the door. Quinn’s rushed footsteps follow.
“I’m not leaving anything with you, most of all the health and safety of my best friend. You need to tell me what you know.”
I turn on her, the rush of nauseating adrenaline a surge so strong I can’t stop myself from getting right in her face. “Or what?” I bite out, leaning into my legacy. “What the fuck are you going to do?”
She takes a beat. A startled blink. Then slowly grows taller with the straightening of her posture.
“Everything in my power.” She holds my stare. Narrows her eyes. “If anything has happened to her, I promise I’ll ruin your life.”
If anything has happened to Isla I’ll help her fucking bury me, but until then Quinn needs to back the fuck off.
“Stay in your lane,” I warn, yanking open my office door.
I storm down the corridor, past Michelo’s glass-walled office to Eliseo’s.
It’s empty. No jacket on the chair. No fucking sign of him.
“He’s meeting with a developer.” His assistant beams as if him actually doing his job is something to boast about. “Do you want me to get him to come see you once he returns?”
“No. I want you to get him on the phone.” I sidestep Quinn and trek back down the hall. “Then patch the call through to my cell.”
“Where the hell are you going?” Quinn asks.
“The airport.” I pin Jessica with a look as I pass. “Call ahead. Have them prepare the jet. I need to get to D.C.”
Chapter
Twenty-Seven
ISLA
I shiftagainst the cold concrete floor, a broken whimper escaping my sore throat as the bars of my cage dig into my back.
It’s been days—two, maybe three—since I was brought here, sightless and barely able to breathe.
After I voiced my unease in the limo and watched the glass partition rise, my abductor directed through the intercom for me to drink the bottle of water waiting in the cup holder, as if my hydration was his priority.
He even warned me the alternative would be “unfavorable”.
But as I screamed and banged on the windows, I hadn’t envisaged his backup plan would involve him lowering the partition just enough to throw a small metal canister into the cabin before raising it again as pepper gas replaced the air in my lungs.
In seconds my eyes, skin, and throat all burned as if I’d been drenched in acid.
I fought to breathe. To see. To think.
Even dumping the contents of my tote onto the floor and pouring the water onto the material to use as a mask hadn’t been enough to stop the torture.
I fought for my life against an invisible enemy, convinced I was going to die for what felt like an eternity, until the limo came to a stop. Then I was hauled from the back seat, the tote yanked from my face and replaced with a different type of material plastered across my mouth.
The next thing I knew I woke up here. Hair damp. No longer wearing Raffael’s shirt but my suit pants and blouse. In a place with no windows or fresh air. Only a lamp in the corner that never switches off, its constant glow stripping me of sleep, time, and any sense of day or night.
If I were to guess, I’d say at least two nights have passed. Maybe more.
