Page 58 of Blake

Blake unlocked the car and his brothers climbed in.

"Any sign of her?” Nash asked.

“No,” replied Blake. “You get help?”

“Yeah. I had an idea. If we call the police, they might send a dirty cop our way. Instead, I contacted my old DEA buddies and reported that there are illegal drugs on-site at the Lucifer—which, let's face it, is almost guaranteed."

“You fucking bet it is,” replied Blake, gritting his teeth. "As long as the DEA knows what's going on, the cops can't sweep this under the rug."

"Exactly," Nash replied. "Backup will be here in five. Let’s sit tight until then.”

Blake glanced at the club's entrance again, watching all kinds of horrible-looking characters go inside. Minutes stretched into hours as Blake waited, growing more restless with each passing moment.

He appreciated his brothers' careful approach, but his Little was inside that building. He’d sworn an oath that he would do anything—anything—to protect her. With her distinctive red hair and eye-catching looks, she wouldn’t last a minute if she’d gone in there expecting to be a hero. He had to make sure she was safe.

“Fuck it,” he said. “I can’t wait any longer. I’m going in.”

“Blake, they’ll be here any minute—”

“Good. Then you won’t be far behind me.”

“Bro, it’s really not a good idea,” warned Jax.

“Maybe not,” said Blake. “But I’m her fucking Daddy. And sometimes, Daddies have to act on instinct.”

He opened up the glove box of his car and took out his gun. Then, he got out of the car, tucking the gun into the back of his jeans, and walked up to the club’s entrance. This was it. The most important mission of his life.

The steady thump of bass vibrated through Blake's chest as he entered, his narrowed eyes scanning for any sign of his babygirl.

The place was full, bodies dancing, lost in the music. Neon lights flickered across the room, casting vibrant hues of purple and blue onto the sleek, modern decor. The air was thick with the scent of expensive cologne and the faint, lingering sweetness of tropical cocktails.

Blake pushed his way through, passing clusters of people lounging on plush leather sofas, sipping drinks, and nodding their heads to the beat.

He looked constantly, obsessively, for his little girl, But she was nowhere to be seen. Blake ducked into a dark corridor, away from the dancefloor. Just then, a familiar voice stopped him in his tracks.

"Blake Marks." He turned to see the voice's origin. It was Vincent DeLuca—Scarface—the man who had recognized him at the gala just days ago. "You're all over the news, buddy. The cops will be real happy to find you here."

For the third time this evening, Blake didn't hesitate. He lunged forward, slamming his fist into Scarface's jaw with a satisfying crunch. The man crumpled to the floor, unconscious. Thankfully, there was no-one nearby to see.

“Looks like I have a knack for that,” remarked Blake, cracking his knuckles. He’d thrown so many punches tonight it felt like he’d done his hand some real damage, but there were plenty more punches in him yet if there had to be.

Time was running out, and he couldn't waste it on small talk.

"Stay down there where you belong," he muttered, stepping over DeLuca and continuing deeper into the club.

He focused on Savannah, pushing away the dark thoughts that threatened to consume him. She needed him, and she needed him now.

"Where are you, Savvy?" he whispered under his breath.

Finally, Blake found himself in front of a nondescript door at the back of the club. The one that he and Savannah had once tried to enter together. His gut told him this was the place. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for whatever he might find inside, and pushed the door open.

"Please, Marcus, let me go," Savannah's voice drifted to him, weak but defiant.

Relief washed over Blake—she was alive.

In the dark room, he saw her bound tightly to a chair, her body slumped and her eyes glazed from whatever drug they'd given her.

A sickly man in his sixties sneered down at her, his bony hands gripping her arm as if she were a possession.

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