Page 23
The bus ride from New York should have taken nine hours. Instead, it had dragged on for nearly eighteen, crawling through backwater towns and stopping at every piss-poor gas station along the way. More than once, Ronan had been tempted to ditch the bus and just rent a car, or better, steal one. His skills hadn’t dulled. But patience mattered. He wanted to arrive unseen, unnoticed.
Detroit didn’t know he was here yet.
He adjusted the strap of the pack, feeling the weight settle against his shoulder. His daughter was in this city. She thought she was clever, hiding among strangers. But Madelaine was his. She’d been born his property, and he’d carve that lesson into her if she’d dared to forget.
He pulled a burner phone from his pocket and dialed. “What have you found out?” he barked.
Static crackled before the geek answered, his voice thin and nasal-sounding. “She’s in the city, but…no one’s seen her.”
Ronan’s jaw clenched. “But she hasn’t left?”
Silence. Too long. Then, “I can’t guarantee anything. You got in and out of the country without notice. She could…!”
“She doesn’t have money!” Ronan snapped a little too loudly, drawing looks from a passerby. He glared at the offended woman until she stumbled on her own feet and hurried away. “She can’t travel without resources.”
“She has powerful friends with money,” the geek offered delicately.
Ronan’s lip curled. “Do you think she’s gone back to Chicago? To that Bianchi brat?”
“No.” The reply was confident. “I have eyes there. Hard to keep them in place though. There’s some tech guy, paranoid genius type. Runs surveillance like a private god. Knows when someone even scratches their nose in that neighborhood. But I’ve still got a few lines in….”
“I don’t give a damn about computer geeks!” Ronan roared, making two teenagers across the street freeze mid-conversation. He turned his back to them, dropping his volume. “Get me her location. Now. Every minute you waste, she’s slipping further away.”
“Yes, sir,” the geek stammered.
Ronan ended the call with a violent jab of his thumb.
He looked around again, disgust curling through him. The streets in this back alley stank of grease and rot. Trash drifted against buildings that hadn’t seen fresh paint in decades. Rust and dust covered everything. He’d seen plenty of filthy cities, but Detroit carried its scars with pride.
Not that he cared. He wasn’t here for the sights. He wasn’t here to admire architecture or pity the broken.
He was here for his daughter. To drag her back. To break her if he had to.
And then he would hand her over to the old man with his sick, drooling obsession.
Chapter 17
“What are you working on?” Paulo asked.
Madelaine spun around, clutching the sheet of paper to her chest protectively. “I’m, uh…just making something.”
He arched a brow, coming deeper into the room. “Making what?” He looked down at her with a small smile.
Her pulse skipped. He’d been surprisingly kind at the golf course the other day, teasing, even, but his nearness still rattled her. Good grief, the man was too handsome, too intense, and when he smiled, it was devastating.
“I’ve been arranging,” she admitted, lowering the paper reluctantly. “Leaves, pebbles, flowers—little things from your garden. Catarina and I discovered in school that we loved art. She was good with oils, charcoal, all sorts of mediums. And me?” She gave a self-conscious shrug. “I like creating patterns out of whatever I can find in nature. I guess it’s my way of making sense of things. Creating order from chaos.”
She held up the page, sketched outlines showing where she planned to glue pressed leaves and dried petals. The attempt at a hand-shaped pattern was crooked, the lines uneven. With a groan, she crumpled the paper. “It’s just a silly thing I do.”
“Why is it silly?”
She looked up at him, startled. “You don’t think… I mean, making faces and landscapes out of twigs and flowers is a little weird, right?”
His lips twitched. “No. Different, maybe. But not weird.”
“That’s…well, you’ve never actually seen my work,” she sighed, folding her arms.
“Creating beauty out of nature’s scraps doesn’t sound weird to me,” he replied. His eyes sparkled with quiet amusement that made her bristle even as warmth filled her chest. “Unique, yes. But not weird.”
