Page 68 of Ruthless Betrayal

Of course it did. Upriver would have been easier to trace. “And how many of them are now dead?”

“Seventeen, Boss. Unfortunately, they got nine of ours.”

My heart sinks.Nine. That’s a lot of families who will be grieving tomorrow. I will send someone around to each family, of course, to deliver the news and offer support from the Agosti family. But that won’t soften the blow of finding out a loved one has been gunned down in the line of duty. Nothing can soften that news.

“And do we know any more about who sent them? Surely, some of these men look familiar tosomeone. We have seventeen dead bodies from someone else’s crew out there on my grounds. Spread the word. I want information, and I want itnow. Offer a reward for the information. One million dollars.”

Danelli’s mouth drops open. “A million?”

I spear him with an unblinking stare. “Itismy daughter, Danelli. If nothing is forthcoming in the first twelve hours, up the reward to two million.”

“Yes, sir.” He almost salutes. I see his fingers itching to do so. Instead, he clenches his hands into fists. “I have people going through the pockets as we speak. Taking photos of their faces. We’ll put the word out. With this many men, someone will know. And with that level of reward…it’s only a matter of time before we discover which crew they’re from, Boss.”

I agree with his assessment. Someone will talk, and soon. At least one of those dead men will be recognized by someone.

Whoever is in charge of these sustained attacks has just made a soon-to-be-fatal error.

28

“Not until we are lost do we begin to understand ourselves.”

Henry David Thoreau

Bianca

I stripoff the bloodied clothing as soon as I reach the bedroom and reopen the door to throw them out into the hallway. I don’t care that Lee, stationed outside, may have just caught a glimpse of my nakedness. I cannot bear the thought of those clothes anywhere in this space. Even in the washing hamper. Or in the trash.

“Burn them,” I call out through the door.

“Will do, ma’am,” comes the muffled response.

I turn the shower on and make the water as hot as I can stand. Then I wash my hair and scrub and scrub my body for what feels like hours. But I can’t seem to get clean. Eventually, I sink down onto the tiled floor and put my head onto my bent knees, letting the water wash over my shoulder blades and allowing the tears to fall.

I killed a woman. Well, technically Rio did, but I was instrumental in her death.

Not just anyone. A woman Iknew. A woman I trusted enough to leave my child in her care.

Penn wasnice. She cared about Emilia—or at least, she appeared to—almost as much as I did. I can’t process the fact that she’s actually dead, and that I was the one who caused her death.

I keep seeing her face, over and over, even when I squeeze my eyes shut. There’s a hollow, empty feeling in my chest, like the act of killing her somehow snuffed out the life in my own heart. How does Rio live with this? How do any of them live with this empty ache inside?

I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to fall asleep again.

And above and beyond everything else I’m feeling about Penn’s death, I’m terrified for my baby. Emilia is gone. Taken by God knows who, for God knows what purpose, and who knows if I’ll ever get my innocent little girl back.

Is she afraid of whoever took her? Are they treating her okay? Feeding her the right kind of food? Changing her diaper regularly? Do they even know how to look after a six-month-old child? What if she wants her momma, as she calls me, or her dadda? And neither of us comes when she cries out? Will she feel abandoned by the ones who are supposed to love and protect her?

If we get her back, will she remember this incident? Will it traumatize her forever?

The only faint hope I try to cling to is that she’s the same age now that I was when I was whisked away bymynanny and dumped on the steps of a church, and I honestly don’t remember any of that.

Hopefully, if—no, I correct myself,when—she’s back in my arms, safe and sound, she won’t remember a thing about it.

As I sit here, hot water pouring down over my body, something about my thoughts begins to jar. Slowly, I lift my head.

Taken by God knows who.

But that isn’t correct. Idoknow who took her. Or at least, I think I do. Remembering what Penn said before she died, and how she alluded to the guy in the club, the suspicion crystallizes into a certainty.

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