Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 126682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 507(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 507(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
“But?” I ask, holding my breath.
“But the problem isn’t you. It’s me.”
I stare into those otherworldly eyes that look so similar now, so different without the eyepatch. “What do you mean?”
“If I take you with me, I’m going to be focused on you because nothing can ever happen to you again.” He implores me with that steely gaze. “Do you understand?”
I do. Like Livy said, he’ll be forced to divide his attention between Claire and me, to keep both of us safe. I’ll be a distraction.
“I need you to run the show here because I have to take Dante with me,” he says in a soft voice.
Because Saverio is unstable on his legs. He needs the backup, and the only man he trusts is Dante.
“I need you to take charge of the guests and give the guards orders if necessary,” he continues. “Can you do that for me, tesoro?”
He’s not telling me. He’s asking me. Begging me. And I find I can’t deny him. That he’s right. He doesn’t need the added burden of worrying about me on a stakeout to get our daughter back.
Wrapping my arms around him, I burrow my face in the fabric of his jacket. “Bring her home. Please.”
“I promise,” he says, giving me the same vow over and over again no matter how many times I demand it from him.
He hugs me with his free arm locked around my waist, holding me in such a fierce embrace it’s impossible to breathe. I revel in it, happily sacrificing my oxygen for the reassurance of his strong arms and the hard shape of his gun that presses against my hip.
As abruptly as he grabbed me, he sets me free. Pushing me aside is difficult for both of us. When he walks from the room, leaving me behind, we’re both hurled into the worst kind of hell.
Chapter
Thirty-Seven
Saverio
* * *
The motel is a cheap, rundown hovel, exactly the kind of place where I expected to find Mary. The April night is cold, a breeze rustling the weeds that creep around the fence. Except for the sedan Mary drove, there’s only one other vehicle parked close to a vending machine—an old pickup.
We left our cars a block down the road. Dante and I keep in the shadows as we make our way past an empty swimming pool filled with rubble to the single row of rooms. My men are stationed around the parking lot and the back in case of an ambush, which I already eliminated as a possibility based on the drone footage of the area. The place is isolated, and we’re the only people outside. Our infrared drone camera didn’t pick up soldiers hidden in the nearby buildings. Not counting the man at the reception desk, there are three people in the motel, two in the room where I assume the owner of the pickup is sleeping, and in Mary’s room…only one. There’s no sign of a baby in the car or anywhere on the property.
I try not to think about that. Not for now. Not until I get answers from Mary. She’s the only lead I’ve got.
I scan the area before giving the go-ahead sign to Dante. He’s agile on his feet while I drag behind with my cane. The three men tailing us split up at my signal. Two of them flatten their backs on the wall next to the door while the third uses the vending machine to climb swiftly onto the roof.
The curtains in front of our target room window are drawn. Two windows down, a woman riding a fat old man’s dick is visible in the light that spills onto the cracked walkway. They’re noisy, not caring who hears or sees or maybe thinking no one is going to come around here at this hour of the morning. The guard who scouted the side of the building takes up a station in front of their room in case they get nosy.
The hollow-core door I’m aiming for is flimsy. It doesn’t take much to kick it open. I aim my gun in front of me, my finger ready on the trigger. Dante covers my back. A third man points a flashlight into the room. The beam cuts over two single beds with mustard-yellow bedspreads. A laminate nightstand separates them. The sharp copper scent that infuses the moldy air already tells me someone beat us to it before the man moves his light to the corner where Mary Brennan sits with her back braced against the wall.
I flick my fingers in quiet instruction and point at the lamp next to the fat-belly television. Dante switches it on. A weak yellow glow washes out the darkness. My gaze is drawn to where Mary clutches her stomach. Blood pours through her fingers and drips down her hands onto the threadbare green carpet.