Page 60 of Wounded King
Roberto's dead?
My jaw locks, teeth grinding like concrete under pressure. Sophia's gone. A thousand images flash through my mind—none of them good. None I can live with. I lunge for the nearest object—the office phone—and hurl it at the window with a roar. Glass cracks, but not enough to shatter. Not enough to satisfy the storm inside me.
Breathing hard, I plant my fists on the marble desk, forcing myself to steady. I need focus. I need clarity.
My sister is missing. And Roberto? He's dead, before I could lay a hand on him. That bastard was mine. After what he did to her, I wanted him broken. Begging. But someone got to him first. Whoever took him out just made themselves a target.
I didn't even know they were back in New York.
Someone's been moving pieces behind my back.
I don't like that.
And I really don't like what it might mean for Sophia. Fuck! I should've trusted my gut and flown to L.A. the moment she called. If something's happened to her, that's on me.
But guilt won't bring her back.
Only action will.
I straighten, spine like steel, and turn to Luciano. "What do we know?"
Several scenarios play out in my head, one bloodier and more horrifying than the other. Did Roberto kill her and then himself? Or was it the same people who were after me?
"Nothing. Well, nothing but that the cops found Roberto's bloody corpse so mutilated they had to do a DNA analysis to confirm his identity with the driver's license stapled to his caved-in chest. Other than that…" Luciano sure has a way with words.
"Other than that, yes," I tap the screen with my mouse to wake it up, scanning my emails.
Luciano runs a hand through his hair, "I forwarded everything to your email. They searched Roberto's house and ran into a massacre. All house personnel and bodyguards were butchered. Not a trace of Sophia."
Wordlessly, I stare at the images Luciano sent me. Shots of mutilated bodies greet me as I browse through them. I've seen some carnage through my years, hell, I've inflicted carnage, but nothing like this. Nothing even close.
"How can they be sure Sophia isn't among the dead?" I demand, staring at remnants that are barely recognizable as human remains. Blood is everywhere. The walls, the ceiling, the furniture. There is nothing human left on those corpses. Not a trace. Whoever did this is not only one sick son of a bitch, but efficient too. A true psycho.
"DNA." Luciano walks over to the bar and fills two glasses with whiskey for us while I press Sophia's number on my phone. I am not really expecting her to answer, but I am hoping.
"Call me," I bark when it goes to voicemail. Sophia is the only member of my family left that means anything to me. Whoever took her is going to pay for this. What they did to those corpses? It'll look like child's play once I'm done with them.
"Does Carlos know?" I demand.
"Mallard sent all this directly to me just now," Luciano fills me in. Oliver Mallard is one of the cops loyal to us.
With a deep sigh, I dial my father's number next.
"Marcello? You're out, I heard." He picks up after five rings. Five! Stupid bastard. I've been out for a fucking week.
"Where is Sophia?" I demand, not bothering with false pleasantries. They were never part of our relationship.
"You heard?"
Fuck the old bastard. Just once, I wish he would answer a question instead of asking one himself. I grunt in reply because I don't have time for his bullshit. Otherwise, I would either hang up or play the silent game for however long it took for him to break the silence.
"Bad business with Roberto," my father mumbles.
"Bad business? Roberto? Where the fuck is my sister?" I explode.
"Look, I'm kind of busy right now, trying to stay out of jail and all." He tries to sound like a rational human being, but the attempt falls flat. "Why don't you take the lead on this?"
I hang up without bothering to reply. There's no useful information to be gleaned from that asshole.
