“No,” I scream. “Don’t leave me here.”
Chapter
Twenty-Eight
RAFFAEL
I land in Washington,D.C., with a knot in my throat and a mind rabid for answers.
Eliseo doesn’t get back to me until the jet is on the ground, and when he does, there’s no useful information. He didn’t notice Isla was missing. He didn’t pay enough attention to protect her. He assumed she was laying low inside her apartment.
It’s a failure I intend to punish once I get her back.
But first I have to find, and deal with, my cousin.
I stop at the gates to Langston’s property, the towering steel barriers opening seconds after I press the gatehouse buzzer.
I’m not surprised the fucker is expecting me. I’m sure he has a sixth sense for trouble, especially when he’s the cause of it.
I continue up the long, tree-lined drive, prepared to change the trajectory of my life for the sake of Isla’s. I park before the obscenely ostentatious home—marble steps, a carved archway, large bay windows that mirror the sky. Then I slide out of my rental and stalk straight for the entry.
No sooner do I knock than one of the doors opens and Langston is there, his smarmy welcoming smile triggering a rush of heated rage. “Welcome, cous?—”
I lunge forward, pull a gun, and press it to his sternum. “We need to talk.”
His synthetic smile falters as he looks down at the barrel the same way someone would inspect an insect on their shirt. “You’re lucky my wife isn’t here to see this.”
“You’re lucky I still have the barest thread of discipline, otherwise those you care about would currently be mourning your loss. Now tell me what the fuck you’ve done with Isla.” I back him into the foyer, his cloying arrogance poking at my anger. I jab his chest with the gun over and over, driving him down the hall and into the living room—a large, sun-flooded space with a glass coffee table and a long white sofa I can already imagine splattered with his blood.
I direct him into the furniture. “Sit.”
“I suggest you take a breath.” He sinks into the cushions. “Is this your first time threatening someone with a deadly weapon?”
“Where is she?”
He quirks a judgmental brow. “What did I tell you about emotions leading to complications?”
I raise my aim between his eyes.
He doesn’t acknowledge the escalation. Instead, he cocks his head, slow, scrutinizing me like I’m a curiosity. “Does it look like I’m entertaining guests? Check the house if you want.”
“Where’s Bishop?” I demand.
“I recommend not getting him involved. He wouldn’t tolerate this type of misstep.”
“I don’t give a fuck. I want to know where he is, and where you’re holding Isla.”
He stretches his arms along the backrest of the sofa, the picture of relaxation. “He’s vacationing in Cabo with my sister and their daughter. Neither of us are a part of whatever it is you’re accusing us of.”
“Don’t lie to me.” I battle the temptation to blow his brains all over his Art Deco interior.
“I wouldn’t lie to you, cousin.” He reaches for the inside of his jacket.
“Hands where I can see them.” I jab the gun closer.
Langston rolls his eyes, slowing his reach but continuing all the same. He retrieves his cell and, with the composure of a man who believes he’s untouchable, unlocks it and hands it over. “Check my messages. The most recent is from my niece.”
I snatch the device and thumb through to the conversation menu. I find the text thread in question and stare at the latest exchange—a sun-drenched photo of a young girl in a bathing suit, sand in her hair, with Bishop standing beside her, caught mid-laugh.
