Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 97656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
But now, after Viola’s call, I can’t stay a moment longer. Her voice had come through shaky and breathless, the words tumbling out too fast. I could have put that down to our situation, but the moment she called her puppy Massie, I knew she was trying to signal that she is in danger, and I will be walking into a trap.
“Does she seem like she is in trouble to you?” Miriam asks.
“Yes,” I reply. My fingers move fast, pulling up the kitchen camera from earlier this evening. The timestamp shows Rebecca moving around the playpen, but then I see it — one of my own men, someone who has full access to the house, slipping in through the service door. He’s the one who takes the puppy. Not Rebecca. Not some random kidnapper.
My jaw locks.
If it’s one of my men, then this has to be an inside job. The only way anyone under me would do this or work for someone else is if they’re working for Salvatore’s son.
“This is a setup,” I say, my voice flat and cold. I turn the phone so Miriam can see the footage. “And I’m pretty sure I know exactly who is behind it.”
Miriam’s eyes narrow, but she doesn’t argue. She’s smart enough to see the play.
I rise to my feet. “I need to leave.”
“Alright,” she says. “We’ll go with you and help you.”
I sit back down on the metal chair and quickly go through my plan with her. My mind is already ten steps ahead. Contingencies, exit routes, the exact words I’ll say when I get my hands on Mario, but underneath it all, the anxiety and fear for Viola burns like acid in my veins. She’s out there right now, probably scared to death.
If Mario even touches her… I swear to God, I’ll kill him right there.
Miriam quickly coordinates the team, and we’re out of the bureau and on our way.
Chapter Seventy-Two
VIOLA
Agag is stuffed in my mouth, rough and tasting of sweat and oil, muffling every sound I try to make. I thrash against the ropes, the rough fibers scraping my wrists raw, sending sharp sparks of pain up my arms, but it’s no use. The knots hold. My body is trapped, useless.
Mario sits in front of me, gun in his hand, the metal catching the dim overhead light. His face is twisted with that same bitter rage I remember from my time sharing the same house. He looks at his watch, stands, and starts to pace. I can tell he’s worried that something will go wrong. That it won’t all unfold according to his plan, and I am hoping and praying with all my heart that this will be the case.
Then I hear it.
The low growl of a car pulling up outside. Tires crunch slowly over gravel, then the engine cuts off with a final, heavy thunk. My stomach drops so fast it feels like I’ve been punched. I know that sound. I know that engine. It’s Ricci. He came. Of course he came. Did he understand my message and come prepared though? My heart lurches, a wild mix of relief and terror flooding through me all at once.
I want to scream. I want to warn him, call out to him and tell him Mario and his men outside are armed. But the gag is tight and dry against my tongue, and all I can manage is a muffled, useless whimper that dies in my throat. All I can do is wait and hope he doesn’t come through that door without a plan. First, he will have to get through the men outside, and then he will have to deal with Mario.
Mario stops pacing and freezes. His head tilts toward the sound, a cruel little smile curling the corner of his mouth as he raises the gun, checking the chamber with a soft metallic click. His eyes gleam with anticipation.
My heart pounds so loud it drowns out everything else: the traffic outside, the creak of my chair every time I push against the ropes, even my own ragged breathing. It’s a wild, frantic drumbeat in my ears. I can’t look away from the door.
I listen for Ricci’s approach. Please, I think, over and over, the word a frantic prayer in my head. Please don’t walk into this trap unprepared or alone. Please.
My heart stops when the door is pushed open.
It swings inward with a slow, metallic creak that seems to echo forever. But no one steps inside. The doorway stays empty. Nothing. There is nothing but darkness beyond it. I’m confused. Relieved but confused. Mario’s smile falters. He glances back at me, then at the door again, curiosity winning over caution. He moves forward carefully, gun raised, steps quiet, as he peers into the shadows.
Suddenly, bright lights flood the space.
Blinding white beams cut through the gloom from every direction — powerful, merciless, sweeping across Mario’s face like searchlights. He flinches, one hand flying up to shield his eyes, cursing viciously under his breath as he stumbles back a step. The lights are everywhere, bouncing off the walls, turning the room into a glaring, disorienting hell. Mario fires wildly, the gunshot cracking loud and sharp in the enclosed space, the bullet ricocheting somewhere behind me with a metallic ping that makes me flinch.