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We’re led to a stairwell, where Astor and Cillian exchange a few hurried words, none of which I can discern due to the sound of the blood rushing through my ears.

Still gripping my hand, Astor jogs us down the stairwell several levels, then we enter an elevator that I didn’t even know was there.

The mirrored door slides closed.

I stare at the reflection of the man next to me, gripping my hand.

Astor Stone, CEO, billionaire, sex symbol.

Astor Stone, kidnapper.

I blink.

What the hell just happened?

Ten

Astor

“You okay?” Cillian asks.

I drop into the leather recliner as the jet lifts into the air.

He sinks into the seat next to me, loosening his tie. “I asked if you were okay.”

I don’t respond.

“You are not made of steel, Astor, no matter how hard you pretend to be. The only woman you’ve ever married, and the only woman you’ve had a child with, was just kidnapped and killed. You have to be feeling something.”

“I feel nothing.”

He gives me a pointed look. “You did this when your mom died, and when everything happened with Chloe. You don’t address death, and it’s going to eat you from the inside out.”

“My job is death. My entire life is death. Listen, Cillian. the bottom line is this—it’s done. Just like this conversation.”

I look away, swallow the knot in my throat, and close my eyes for a moment. My chest is tight, my hands clammy, and bones vibrating with adrenaline. I feel like I’m about to burst through my skin and rip apart everything in my path.

Grief is manageable. Yes, it’s a cold and callous way to look at the end of life, but for me, it is the only way. Guilt, however, is a hundred knives severing my internal organs all at once.

Breathe, Astor. Fucking breathe.

Cillian is updating me on the men we still have stationed on the Strip, but the words aren’t penetrating.

Breathe, motherfucker, breathe.

I focus on his voice and slowly bring myself back to center.

“... so now I need to know who the hell this Carlos Leone guy is.”

I wipe my palms on my slacks. Where to even begin?

Cillian glances back at the woman he gagged and tied to the seat in the back before takeoff. He sucks in a breath and sinks low into his seat.

“That’s the same look my mother used to give me before she’d whip me with a belt.”

I glance over my shoulder.

One diamond-studded heel is lying in the center of the aisle, the other dangling from a cherry-red toenail. Her mind-numbingly tight dress has ridden up her thighs, which, I’m sad to say, she’s remedied by squeezing shut.

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