Page 72 of Gilded Saint

Why talk? To whom?

My stomach freefalls as my gaze whips to the elevator bank. I slide out the mobile. No service.

Gun poised; I rush to the elevator. God damn forty-first floor.

The glass digital reading shows the number forty. A down arrow appears.

Were they on my floor? Or is it chance?

I could rush up, but then, if they have her, I’ll miss them. Is that why they talked to John? The code.

He wouldn’t give it, though, would he?

I take cover behind my car, positioned to see the glass door that leads to the garage level elevator well.

What do I know about John? He’s not American. Nick hired him. Transferred him into my employ. British SAS? No. He’d been a cop. Or had he even been that?

He came to work for me four fucking years ago. I don’t remember shit from his resume.

Did you give them the code, John?

I fumble with the phone, flicking through to the video feed of my place. The video shows the foyer, the living area, the kitchen. She could be in our bedroom or the bathroom. Or my study. Or the guest room. Empty room after empty room.

I run my finger over the time range, sliding it backward. My eyes sting and my throat clenches. Three men.

The elevator dings, and I set the phone on the tire.

Blink. Prepare.

Three men. Plus the idling car.

One tango steps out, gun lowered at his side, scanning the area. He holds the glass door. Leandro pushes Willow out of the elevator.

Fucker.

The second tango exits behind him.

Wait.

Take clean shots.

Willow exits. One bruised eye, a bloody lip, tears.

“ChiamaMarco,” Leandro growls.

Call Marco.

“You are sick,” Willow cries.

He’s got her hands tied behind her, but she’s fighting. Struggling against him.

Good girl. I should’ve given her fucking self-defense lessons like I gave my sisters.

“There’s no signal. I’ll go get him.”

“He should’ve taken one of these spots. Where the fuck is he?”

“Probably didn’t want to risk getting booted. Visitor spots are next level.”

---