Page 51 of Dirty Delivery

“Come on, Savannah,” I whisper, dialing again. Same result. My hands tremble as I scroll to Declan’s name and hit call.

“Rylan,” Declan answers, his tone already tinged with sarcasm. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Savannah’s missing,” I say, my voice sharp.

There’s a pause before Declan snorts. “Missing? Are you sure she didn’t just grow tired of your charming personality and bolt?”

“I’m serious,” I snap. “She’s gone. Her phone’s off, her stuff’s still here, and there’s no sign she left willingly.”

Declan’s tone shifts, the teasing edge replaced with a dangerous calm. “Alright. Tell me everything.”

I recount the details, my frustration boiling over as I pace the house. Declan listens in silence before finally speaking. “First step, calm the fuck down. Panicking won’t help either of you.”

“Calm down?” I snap, gripping the back of a chair until my knuckles turn white. “She could be in danger, Declan!”

“And if she is, you’ll be no good to her if you’re losing your shit,” he replies evenly. “Let me make some calls. Check with our contacts. If the Castillos have her, we’ll find out soon enough.”

“Wait,” I blurt, an idea forming. “I gave her a burner. It has Ty’s tracking app on it. Can you pull it up?”

Declan sighs, but I can hear him moving. “Give me a second.” The sound of typing fills the line before he speaks again. “Got it. Looks like her last ping was at the coastal airport about thirty minutes ago.”

“The airport?” I echo, dread curling in my stomach.

“Yeah,” Declan confirms. “Signal’s gone dark now. Whoever has her knew what they were doing. They must've destroyed the phone.”

I slump against the counter, my mind spinning. Savannah didn’t even know her phone had a tracker. Someone else does. Someone who planned this.

“If it’s the Castillos,” Declan continues, “they’re probably heading back into town. That’s about an hour-long flight.”

“Then we don’t have much time,” I say, steel hardening in my voice. “We need to move.”

Declan’s voice sharpens. “Rylan, don’t do anything stupid.”

“I’m going to get her back, and nothing’s going to stop me.”

Chapter Forty

Savannah

I wake with a start, the pounding ache in my head pulling me from the fog of unconsciousness. My limbs feel like they’ve been stuffed with lead. My throat is parched. Each breath scrapes like sandpaper. The air is damp and musty and clings to my skin like an unwelcome embrace. I blink against the oppressive darkness, a single dim light bulb swinging from the ceiling casting weak, flickering shadows across the room. The cold, unforgiving surface beneath me sends a shiver through my body. The rough texture of the concrete floor bites into my skin, a sharp reminder that this isn’t some nightmare I can wake up from.

My heart stutters when I try to move and the cold bite of metal against my ankles stops me short. I glance down and see them—heavy iron shackles around my ankles are bolted to the floor with a chain barely long enough to let me shift two feet in either direction. The cruel weight of the restraints presses down on me as panic sets in. I tug uselessly against the chains with trembling hands, the sound of the links clinking echoing in the small, concrete room.

I’m practically naked, dressed only in the matching black lace bra and panties I’d chosen that morning. I’d picked them with Rylan in mind, hoping he’d notice and maybe . . . well, it doesn’t matter now. The thought of him hits me like a punch to the gut. He has no idea where I am. He must be worried sick. Or worse—he might think I ran away.

No. I shake my head, trying to clear the cobwebs of fear clouding my thoughts. Rylan wouldn’t believe that. Not after everything that’s happened between us. He might be overbearing and infuriating at times, but he’s never doubted me when it counted. He wouldn’t willingly let me leave, not with the threat of the Castillos looming over us.

I bite my lip, urging myself to stay calm. Panicking won’t help. I need to figure out where I am and how to get out of here. My eyes scan the room, taking in the sparse details. Bare concrete walls and floor. No windows. A single, heavy metal door on the far side of the room. A bucket in the corner and a few scattered tools that look like they belong in a medieval dungeon. My stomach churns at the implications.

Before I can dwell on it further, the metallicclangof the door slamming open jerks me upright. A man steps inside, his presence overwhelming in the cramped space. He’s grotesque, with an oily sheen to his black slicked-back hair, a thick gold chain gleams against his sweat-stained shirt, and an abundance of gaudy rings encapsulate his sausage-like fingers. His eyesare sharp and cruel as they rake over me. My skin crawls in response.

“You filthy whore,” he snarls, his voice thick with a heavy Italian accent that makes the words hit harder, dripping with venom. “You better tell me what the hell you and that Irish scum did with my son.”

His voice slithers through the room, low and guttural. Each word is a punch to the gut. The accent might’ve been charming in another life—one where he wasn’t reeking of sweat, gold, and unbridled rage. But here, in this moment, it only adds to the menace as my heart pounds in my chest.

I stare at him, wide-eyed and trembling, feigning ignorance. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I whisper, my voice hoarse.

His lip curls in a sneer. “Don’t play dumb with me, girl. I know you’re lying.” He gestures to the burly man standing behind him. His muscles strain against the fabric of his suit. The goon steps forward, his expression blank but menacing when he grabs the bucket from the corner.

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