Page 95 of Savage Vows

Trying to clear the red haze from my brain, I pace.

The thought of Alessia leaving—whether it’s for the night or something more—grates against every instinct I have. She belongs with me.

“Get me a goddamn car.”

“Yes, sir.”

By the time I walk out the back door, my SUV is idling in the driveway.

“Where to, sir?”

“To fetch my wife.”

“Sterling Uptown,” Nash clarifies, climbing into the front seat.

As we leave the grounds, I call her. It rings. Once. Twice. Three times.

Then her voicemail picks up, the soft lilt of her voice delivering a recording I don’t want to hear.

Annoyed as hell, I send her a text.

Minutes pass, each one shortening the leash on my temper.

I call again. It rings. Once. Twice. Three times.

I send her another message that gets ignored. So I type out a third.

Alessia. Answer me immediately.

I hesitate, staring at the words before hitting send.

More minutes pass, and still there’s no response.

I clench my fist against my thigh. Alessia was there for me through the hell of the past few days, her quiet strength holding me steady. And now she’s gone—just like that.

I’ve faced betrayal. I’ve faced enemies who’d stab me in the back the first chance they got. But this…this is worse.

Impatience is snapping at me as we approach the city’s newest five-star hotel.

I’ve been here once for a business meeting, but tonight I’m not impressed by the sleek glass facade or its stunning, cultivated gardens.

The driver pulls to a stop, and I open the door before the valet can, and the unseasonal warm, humid air only makes my annoyance worse.

I’m bringing Alessia home with me. Whether she likes it or not.

Inside the Sterling Uptown’s grand lobby, the air is cool, crisp. The polished marble floors gleam under the chandeliers, their light refracting like scattered diamonds.

Nash walks a step behind me, silent but watchful as I stride toward the concierge desk.

The concierge looks up, her professional smile faltering when she meets my glare. “Mr. Moretti,” she begins, but I cut her off.

“Alessia Moretti. Where is she?”

Her composure slips further. “I’m sorry, sir, but we can’t divulge guest?—”

“Room 5301,” Nash interjects, his voice calm but unyielding. “We’ll need access.”

The woman hesitates, glancing toward the security desk. Two uniformed guards exchange a look. One picks up a phone, but the other doesn’t move. Neither one of them seems inclined to intervene.

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