Page 96 of The Pawn
“I used to believe that,” I say, looking back at him. This man I trusted. This man I loved. This man whom I thought loved me and my brother.
He meets my eyes. He’s almost unrecognizable right now.
Angelo’s forehead creases and tears well in his swollen eyes. “Seth. Is he…”
“He’s not going to make it, Uncle.” God. Fuck! “He’s not going to fucking make it. Where the fuck is Malek? You tell me and you tell me now or I swear, I will kill you so fucking slowly you will scream for hours before I finally allow you to die.”
He shakes his head, mumbling something I don’t understand.
A soldier hurries down the stairs, his boots loud on the stone. I turn to him and from the look on his face, it’s bad.
“Sir, he’s not here.” It takes me a minute to process. “Enzo, sir. He’s not here.”
I blink. “What? Where the hell would he be?”
“We’ve checked his house too. He’s gone.”
“But—”
“And…” He hesitates, swallows. “Allegra’s gone too.”
My brain rattles, blood roaring in my ears. I reach out to set a steadying hand on the wall.
“What?” I hear myself ask in an unrecognizable voice, events of the last few weeks replaying in my head, words spoken, distrust sowed.
I rush past him, flying up the stairs. Soldiers are gathering inside the house. They know something is coming. They know.
A soldier jumps out of my way as I shove into my bedroom where the lights are on, bathroom and closet doors open. Even the room to the adjoining door stands open. The bed is still made although it’s messy. There’s a box on top. A small shoe box filled with photographs. I pick up a few. They’re of Allegra’s mother.
Apart from that, there’s nothing.
She’s not here.
I take out my phone and dial her number, stupidly glad I gave her her phone back because for a single ridiculous moment, I think she’ll answer. I think she’ll pick up the goddamned phone. She doesn’t though. Of course she doesn’t. Because she can’t.
“Lock this place down. Now. Search the grounds. Every inch of the house and the property. Find her. Find him. Now!”
33
ALLEGRA
My head throbs. The smell of mold permeates my senses, and I shiver with cold.
In the distance, a sound. An engine? Like a car driving, except we’re not moving.
Nearby I hear water lapping along a shore, gentle and peaceful and wrong.
I startle awake with a gasp, sitting up so fast my head collides with a man’s face. He groans. Curses. When my eyes adjust, I see him looking hatefully at me. Blood seeps from his nose down his lip, over his fingers.
“Bitch,” he mutters, then bends his head to resume his work of tightening the rope around my wrists. My ankles, too, are bound tight, thick rope rough against my skin.
I look around the place. I’m in a cabin of some sort. The door is open, shadows long in the weak light. I hear two men talking outside, the tips of their cigarettes glowing red when they draw in breath. The cabin is on a lake. I can see the long, narrow pier through fog hanging thick over the water.
Inside, the house is dimly lit by that little bit of light coming in through broken out windows and lanterns. Cobwebs, dust and debris cover all surfaces. The upholstery of the chair I’m sitting on is ripped, the seat itself creaking when I move. Everything screams forgotten. Smells of decay.
“Stay still,” the man tells me.
“Where am I?”
