Page 40 of Dragonfly

And while I admit a cat should’ve been obvious even if I didn’t point-blank tell them to keep any eye out for one, when all the brought over were the contents of her closet, I just trusted my top guys to do what they were told.

They wouldn’t steal. To steal from me is the same as betraying me, and every Dragonfly knows better than to do that. Our resident tattooer even has a spiel he gives before he inks my symbol on a new recruit. Unless they’re willing to pledge eternal loyalty to my Family, they should rethink getting the mark. Once a man has my dragonfly on him, I own him.

Just like how my men put a similar mark on their women when they want to claim them as property, they get the idea because the dragonflies inked on their inner arms? That’s a sign that they’re my property.

I might look the other way if someone offends me but they’re not wearing my mark. And if I’m only saying that now to justify not only allowing Savannah to live, but marrying her, I could give a shit. The men that came here do have my tattoo. If they stole anything of hers, that’s the same as stealing from me.

They wouldn’t dare.

But since the alternative is accepting that, apart from a cheap couch in what could laughably be called a living room, a television about a quarter the size of mine, a flimsy faux wood table, and a wire bed frame hosting a box mattress in the bedroom, there isn’t much else in here. She has no decorations on the walls, nothing that shows any personality… except for an overflowing shit box that has my nose wrinkling as I peek into her basic bathroom, an empty bowl in the kitchen, and two tiny toy mice that peek out from beneath her even emptier fridge.

I understand the cat bowl being empty. If she’d fed her pet before she left, odds are it would’ve run out of food sometime in the three nights and two days I’ve kept her to myself. Same thing with the water fountain, though her toilet lid’s up so, hopefully, the cat has had some water.

That furry bastard better be alive, I think, as I continue to search the house for it.

All the while, I can’t stop thinking about the contents of her refrigerator. Savannah had no idea what was going to happen that night since I had no idea what was going to happen. It’s not like she came back and ate, but if she didn’t… how was she going to survive on half of a bottle of ketchup, a jar of pickles, and two apples?

Because apart from an expired carton of orange juice she was still nursing, that was all I found in her refrigerator. A quick peek in her cabinets reveals they’re just as empty.

No wonder she fought back against me when I wanted her to eat. It doesn’t look like she does much of that. I don’t think it’s a dieting thing so much as she couldn’t afford to keep her kitchen stocked. In fact, as I continue looking for her pet, I find more stored bags of cat kibble than I do human food.

One of the bags has been ripped open by tiny cat teeth. Hoping that’s a sign the furry bastard hasn’t starved to death in the last two days, I renew my search.

Eventually, I have to admit that I’m being ridiculous. Trained from the cradle not to show any weakness by her gangster father, I’d walked around her cramped apartment, looking around as if the cat would just be sitting on a nonexistent chair or her flimsy table, waiting for me to find it.

It’s a cat. Considering my men didn’t come across it, it must be hiding. Why the hell am I favoring my injured side so that no one can tell I’m still stitched-up beneath my dress shirt when no one else is around?

If the cat is hiding, odds are it’s under the bed or behind the couch. Maybe in a cabinet. Either way, I need to get a little lower.

No dice on searching the living room. Same with the kitchen. However, when I head back into Savannah’s room, dropping down so that my belly is on the old wood floor, I swear I see something flashing back at me from beneath her bed when I use the flashlight app on my phone.

And that’s not all…

What’s that poking out from beneath the cat?

Because, yup. That’s definitely a cat alright. With vivid green eyes that seem almost mirror-like in the gloomy shadows gathering under her bed when my light lands on it, plus the fluffy orange-and-white fur Savannah described, I know I’ve found Orion.

Now I just have to figure out how to get him out.

Before I headed toward Savannah’s address, I had Christopher bring me a cat carrier. See? This is why I’m the head of my Family. One of us needs to have a brain, and if I came all this way to retrieve the cat and lost him because I had nowhere to put him, I could kiss any chance of softening my new wife up goodbye.

I saw that look in her eye. I know how much she cares about this glorified, puffed-up rat. This Orion might be the key to figuring the mysterious Savannah out.

And only for that reason do I click my tongue and rub my fingers, trying to lure the cat toward me.

It doesn’t work. The furry bastard must know that I’m the reason his mistress has disappeared because he absolutely refused to come closer… until I say fuck it, toss a handful of treats I found in one of her cabinets—because Heaven forbid Savannah stock cat treats, but not a damn loaf of bread in her kitchen—under the bed, and snatch the cat by the scruff wants it gets the nerve to get close enough to scarf them down.

Ha. Gotcha!

Once I have her cat firmly inside of the carrier, my curiosity gets the better of me. I do end up tugging on my stitches, but it looks like a piece of mail has found its way under there. If my men completely blanked on seeing the cat, I can’t expect those shit-for-brains to have found this.

And, suddenly, I really want to know what that is.

I expect it to be trash. Junk mail, maybe, or an old envelope she used to jot a grocery list on. Once I grab it, it’s easy to see that it’s an open envelope. Pulling it out, I confirm it’s an empty envelope.

Still, I turned it over and read the front.

I except the letter to be addressed to Savannah Montgomery. After all, that’s the name she’s going under, even though we both know it’s gotta be fake.

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