“Not exactly,” I grit out. “She was taken.”
“Then why the hell did you bounce to D.C.?”
We cut through the line of chauffeurs idling in black sedans. Doors slam, luggage wheels rattle, voices carry beneath the far-off rumble of jet engines. It’s enough noise, movement, and distraction to keep my tension in volatile territory.
According to Langston’s tracker app—the one I stalked the entire flight home—Isla’s location hasn’t shifted, but that luck could run out at any second.
“Raff.” Miko grabs my arm and yanks me to a stop. “What does her disappearance have to do with you flying to D.C.?”
“I thought they had her,” I growl, his delay hitting the feral pressure point I’ve managed to contain all day.
“They?” He steps in front of me, blocking my path. “Tell me you’re not talking about anyone affiliated with our father.”
“Who else? The fucking Butchers of Baltimore came at us on the yacht, wanting to hold Isla accountable for breaking the agreement.”
“Jesus.” His eyes flare wide. “And here I thought you staying tight-lipped meant you had the situation under goddamn control.”
“I do. Idid.” I wrench my arm free and continue walking past rows of parked cars. “I didn’t cause this. It’s fucking Lorenzo from beyond the grave, and God knows how many men he employed to meddle with our lives.” I pull out my cell and thrust it toward him. “You need to meet me here.”
He takes in the map of Hudson Heights. “That’s where she is?”
“Let’s fucking hope so.”
He scrubs a hand through his hair, our long strides eating up the parking lot. “Do I want to know how you got this intel?”
“It’s safe to say Cavallo-Costa family ties will be temperamental for a while.”
“Minchia,” he scolds under his breath. “Do you at least have a plan once we get there?”
Annihilation. I’m past reasoning. I want blood. I just can’t risk my rage adding to Isla’s precarious position.
“I’ll figure it out when I see what we’re up against.” I reach my car and pause at the driver’s door.
“You realize I’m not exactly prepared for a hostage rescue, right?” Miko gestures at his pristine suit. “How the fuck are we retrieving her?”
“With all the polite diplomacy I’ve got left.” I raise my suit jacket, exposing the gun jammed under my waistband.
“Are you fucking serious?” he deadpans. “This is out of control.”
The unspoken implication that I’ve fucked up isn't what I need right now. “Not because of me it’s not.” I tug open my car door. “Follow me or go home, I don’t care. But I’m getting her back.”
He hesitates, lips flattening, shoulders tightening, and finally gives a clipped nod. “I won’t let you do this on your own.”
“Then hurry up and get moving.”
He pauses another beat, the judgment loud in his silence, before he turns and jogs away.
I climb into my car and start the engine. My hands tighten on the wheel, then I freeze as movement rustles behind me and a sharp pinprick bites into my neck.
“It’s a concentrated sedative,” a woman murmurs behind me. “One move and you’ll be unconscious in seconds. Potentially dead in less than a minute. So keep your hands where I can see them and tell me exactly where Isla is.”
Fucking Quinn.
My grip tightens until the leather squeaks. “I don’t have her.”
“I didn’t say you did. I heard what you told your brother. You know she was taken. I also assume by who.”
“You don’t want to get involved in this.”
