Page 95 of The Villain
“A gun registered to Blackstones. At least she didn’t give it to him.”
“A gun? A real fucking gun?” he asks, and I believe he doesn’t know about it. At least I want to believe that he doesn’t know.
“With a single bullet in it.”
“Fuck. She okay?”
“Yeah. It was too close though. Serial number was intact enough that we’d know where it came from and, conveniently, Severin reported it stolen just this morning.”
“Why the hell would he do that? That’s not his MO. You know how squeamish he is about blood.”
“He sure didn’t sound squeamish when I confronted him tonight.”
“Shit.” He drinks more whiskey while I study him. When he’s done, he sets the bottle down.
“If it was Severin, I’m going to kill him. If Sybil was involved, I’m going to kill her. And if I learn you even had a clue of what was going on, I’m going to fucking add you to that list, am I clear?”
He opens his mouth, but before he can speak, my phone pings with a message. I reach into my pocket, pull out both mine and Allegra’s and her betrayal burns fresh again.
Another text comes in on my phone. I unlock the screen.
The first text is an automated one from one of my offshore accounts. I read the preview, read it again, because this can’t be right.
I open the message, then click into the account.
And there it is. An eight-million-dollar deposit.
What the fuck?
This automated text is followed by another from an unknown number.
I’ll be retrieving my sister tonight. I have big plans for her, and she’d better have all remaining fingers and toes intact.
I read it a second time, my brain slow to understand even as my body isn’t. Even as a fresh shot of adrenaline courses through my veins. When my brain finally catches up, I shoot up off the seat and lunge for my gun.
“Cassian?” Jet asks, he’s on his feet, alert.
I turn to him. “How the hell did Michael Moretti get his hands on eight-million-dollars? Tell me, Jet. How the fuck did he get the money?”
I don’t wait for him to respond. As far as I know, he could be behind it. He could have given that money to Michael Moretti. Either way, I need to stop Michael. I need to get to Allegra.
“You’re with me!” I call out to the two soldiers who replaced the two who took Jet’s bribe. We rush to the elevator, lean on the button to call it, but it’s on the third floor. “Fuck! Let’s go.”
I run down the hall to the stairs, the two on my heels, Jet behind them. The stairs echo, a storm of boots charging. By the time I’m in the garage, I’m out of breath, we all are.
“I’ll get the SUV,” a soldier calls out.
I hurry to the Ferrari, unlock it. “Head back to the house. Do not let them take Allegra. Whatever you haveto do, do not let them take her!” I slam my door closed as I start the engine and just see Jet as I speed out of the underground garage, tires screaming as I shift gears and take the turns up, up and finally out. The car leaps when I floor the gas pedal and car horns blare as I swerve into traffic and speed around the cars slowing at a yellow light. I glimpse the SUVs in the rear view mirror just as I turn onto the on ramp of the highway, scrolling for Enzo’s contact on my phone as I put the pedal to the metal and take the car to its top speed, pushing the button to call Enzo, to warn him, the sinking feeling of dread settling deep in my gut when he doesn’t answer, not the first time, not the second. Not the third.
26
ALLEGRA
Ihate him. I fucking hate Cassian Trevino.
And I hate myself for the fucking stupid tears I’m trying to hide from the soldiers sitting on either side of me, from Enzo in the passenger seat and the driver.
Four soldiers.
