Page 72 of The Kiss that Captured a Billionaire
Her voice was trembling, thick with tears. “Theo, I just found your number. Rose… sent me these. We were video chatting when… when it happened. I didn’t know what to do—she?—”
“Kerry. Tell me everything.”
“She said… she said they were taking her. She told me to tell you she loves you.” Kerry’s voice broke. “She also said something about photos. These are the only ones I could think of—she just sent them before—before?—”
Theo’s grip tightened on the phone until the casing creaked. “Listen to me. Nikos is on his way to you. You need to remember everything Rose said. Everything you saw. We will get her back. I promise. We’ll get her back.”
He ended the call before his voice cracked.
For a moment, he simply sat, his body folding into the chair as if the air had been punched from his lungs. Theo swiped blindly, his hands shaking, barely seeing through the haze.
The picture on the screen was of Rose. She was making a goofy face, the sun flaring behind her over some scenic stretch of road.
He swiped to the next.
Markos’s shadow fell across him. Without a word, the other man reached down and took the phone from his limp fingers, scrolling through the images.
Then he froze. “Theo… she’s brilliant. Look—” He turned the screen. In the background of one shot, the bumper of a dark sedan filled half the frame, the license plate visible. In another, a blurred profile—a man’s face, caught mid-turn.
Markos looked up, his expression grim. “She gave us their car. And maybe one of them.”
Theo rose, his shock replaced with cold and razor-sharp determination. “Call in Angel and Cole,” he said, his voice low and lethal. “Let’s see how good that new software really is.”
Eighteen
Rose woke to the sound of shouting.
Not the distant, muffled kind from a neighbor’s apartment. This was close—just outside the bedroom door.
Her lashes parted the tiniest fraction, letting in a slice of pale daylight. The room was… disarmingly normal—modern, clean, and even tasteful, with pale cream walls, a low-slung oak bed frame, matching nightstands, and a sleek dresser.
A wide window framed by gauzy white curtains let in soft, late afternoon light. The faint scent of dried flowers hung in the air, as if someone had actually tried to make this place pleasant.
No bars. No guards. No restraints.
That unsettled her more than chains would have.
She pushed up onto an elbow, pressing trembling fingers to the dull ache at her temple. The voices were muffled, but one—female, sharp—cut through clearly enough to make out the tone: furious.
A second later came a screech that could have stripped paint.
There was a distinct sound of scuffling as the female voice moved closer.
Rose let her body go slack, her breathing deepening into the slow, even rhythm of someone asleep. Stillness could be as much a performance as movement. She had learned that from different performers over the years and finally understood what they meant.
The door lock clicked. The hinges creaked.
A woman stumbled into the room, shoved forward by a man who—though not tall—had the kind of square, muscled frame that filled the doorway. His black windbreaker hung loose, but his forearms were thick and corded.
The woman spun toward him, snapping something in rapid-fire Italian. The man’s answer was a vicious slap, sharp enough to echo.
Rose’s gut tightened with fear.
The woman staggered, catching herself with one hand on the dresser near the door. Her glossy blonde hair fell across her face, barely hiding the raw bloom of his handprint.
The man barked a guttural threat in Greek—too low for Rose to catch—then turned his gaze toward the bed.
She let her lids lower again, her body sinking into the mattress, keeping her breathing steady.
