Page 87 of Freedom’s Inferno

The word loss hit me like a sucker punch. Not because of Richard. I didn’t have any grief left for him. But because of her.

Lana.

The only person who’d made me feel like I wasn’t already half-dead inside. This man had no idea what I’d just lost. No idea that I could still feel the ghost of her hand in mine, or how her laugh had started to undo things in me I didn’t know were broken.

He thought I was mourning my business partner. He couldn’t possibly understand that I mourned the woman who’d made me want to be more than the man I’d become.

The truth was, I wasn’t any better than Richard’s bloated corpse. I was an empty shell walking around, pretending to breathe while everything that mattered had already been scooped out of me. I was gutted.

“Don’t be,” I said. “Dick was a piece of shit. I hope he’s rotting in Hell. Excuse me…”

The man froze, his smile faltering, his eyes widening a fraction.

I didn’t wait to see what came next. I kept walking, brushing past him and heading for the elevators.

Richard’s voice played in my head on repeat, the way he used to talk about her when he was drunk or pissed off, which was most of the time. He’d roll his eyes and laugh, call her high maintenance, say she was a handful, impossible to please.

“She doesn’t listen, doesn’t respect me,” he’d complain, like he was the poor bastard trapped with some spoiled princess. He’d sneer that she only wanted him for his money, that she’d be nothing without him.

I’d believed him.

Christ, I’d believed him. I thought she was cold, pretentious, just another trophy who’d married up and didn’t know how to appreciate what she had. Now, knowing what he did to her, I couldn’t fucking stand myself. While I was busy judging her, she was surviving him. She took the blows, swallowed the fear, and I didn’t see a goddamn thing.

I jabbed at the elevator button, jaw tight, heart still racing. Somewhere out there, she was terrified, maybe hurt, and there I was, standing under chandeliers, pretending to be a man with a plan. But I wasn’t. Not anymore. I needed to find her. Whatever it took.

The key card nearly slipped from my fingers twice before I got it into the slot. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. The little green light blinked, the door clicked open, and I pushed inside. Walking into the suite felt like coming home after putting a pet down. The space was the same, everything in its place, but the air had gone flat. Someone was missing, someone alive who used to fill the room with her presence, and her absence made the silence unbearable.

Something caught my eye on the side table near the window. A photograph stood propped against the lamp, not dropped or forgotten—placed. My insides turned to ice. I moved toward it, my body already knowing what my mind hadn’t yet caught up to. The paper was glossy, freshly printed, stiff and smooth beneath my fingertips. It still smelled of chemicals.

Lana lay sprawled across the backseat of a vehicle, her red hair spilling over the black leather in a splash of color against the dark. Her head rested in a man’s lap, though the camera had cut off his face. I could only see his jeans, one hand resting on her shoulder, fingers curved in a way that made bile rise in my throat. A dark smear of blood marred the side of her temple. Her face hung slack, her eyes closed; she was unconscious.

My fingers trembled so hard I nearly dropped the photo. The air went out of the room. My pulse thudded behind my eyes, my ribs straining to contain it. I hadn’t realized I was whispering her name until I heard it break from my own mouth.

Red ink scrawled across the bottom edge of the photo, an address in Hudson Valley. Poughkeepsie. They wanted me to find her. I didn’t stop to think. I tore through the suite, pulling open drawers, yanking clothes from hangers, grabbing our bags from the bedroom. My movements were frantic, mechanical, driven by pure adrenaline. I needed to move.

Then the hotel phone rang. The sound split the air, shrill and clean. I froze, chest heaving, my mind racing to catch up. The photo slipped a little in my hand. I stared at the phone, listening to the relentless rhythm of the ring, trying to decide if I had the strength, or the stupidity, to answer.

I snatched the receiver. “Hello?” My voice came out rough, too loud in the quiet room.

“Hello, Mr. Sterling.” Damian Costa. His voice hit me like a physical blow. I gripped the receiver so tight it creaked in my hand.

“Where is she?” I demanded. “What the fuck have you done to her?”

He gave a small, amused hum, like this was a game. “Direct and to the point. I like that in a businessman.”

Don’t‒” My throat burned. “Just tell me if she’s alive.”

A low laugh rolled through the line, smooth and unhurried. “She’s alive,” he said. “For now.”

I shut my eyes, forcing air into my lungs, trying to keep my voice steady. “If you touch her… If you so much as look at her the wrong way‒”

He cut me off with another laugh, louder this time, a man completely at ease. “Listen to yourself. Making threats you can’t back up. You’re out of your depth, Mr. Sterling. You always have been.”

I could hear something faint in the background, a muffled noise, like a scuffle followed by a sharp, broken gasp. My heart climbed into my throat. “If you hurt her,” I said, quieter this time, shaking with it, "I’ll kill you. I don’t care what it takes.”

“Oh, I believe you,” Costa said, almost kindly. “But if you want her to stay breathing, you’ll go to the address on the photograph. You’ll come alone. Do you understand?”

My heartbeat pounded against my skull. “How do I even know she’s still alive?” I snapped. “How do I know you haven’t already‒”