Page 209 of Salvatore

I shake my head, unable to think, barely able to breathe. “I don’t know. I haven’t had anything to do with my family in years.”

He straightens, seeming to steel himself against the dead end before pulling out his phone to start typing. “I’ll get our men searching. They can’t have gone far.” He steps to the side, allowing me space to escape the claustrophobic room into the office that smells of gunpowder and death.

Matthew kneels beside Lorenzo, his head bowed.

They both stare at the fallen patriarch. Silent. Steadfast.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry.”

Matthew’s glassy eyes meet mine, the vengeance hidden in the moistened depths capable of making me fear for my life if I wasn’t already maxed out on the emotion.

“You didn’t do this,” he snarls, climbing to his feet. “But those who did will pay.” He jerks his chin toward the door and glances at his watch. “Come on. We need to get you out of here. The cops won’t ignore what’s going on forever.”

I’m escorted from the penthouse, past bodies and blood, into the corridor that’s far worse. Lorenzo’s guards have been massacred, their heads littered with bullets, making them unrecognizable.

“Try not to look,” Remy mutters. “That shit’ll stick with you.”

I focus straight ahead at the elevator doors, but it’s not the surrounding carnage that haunts me. It’s the memory of Salvatore in that kitchen, surrounded, fighting for his life.

Fighting forme.

We descend to the parking lot. I’m helped into another waiting Suburban, then driven through the city, down back roads and side streets, into a secluded alley where the vehicle stops beside a brick building with an unmarked steel door.

Men surround the vehicle, stone-faced, criminally inclined.

They help me from the car and usher me into the building, down a flight of stairs, past rows of empty industrial shelves. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, bouncing off concrete and steel. Two doors marked as bathrooms sit off to the side, their chipped signs barely hanging on.

“It’s this way.” Matthew steers me toward a battered wooden closet in the far corner and wrenches open the door, shoving aside hanging clothes. “In here.”

Panic grips me. A closet?

“It’s okay.” Remy’s voice is steady behind us. “Ollie’s inside.”

“This was used during prohibition.” Matthew pulls aside more clothes, revealing a narrow passage. Beyond it, there’s a dimly lit bar—dusty and abandoned, yet filled with a handful of familiar faces.

“Liv?” Her name is ripped from my throat as I shove through, pushing past old jackets to reach the room.

She breaks from her small circle—Layla, Abri, and Bishop, along with a little girl—and rushes for me, crushing me in a hug.

“Lorenzo’s dead.” I cling to her, squeezing my eyes shut. “They took Salvatore.”

“I know.” She cradles my head with her hand. “Remy will find him. I know he will.”

I wither under the placation, the unjust optimism making me feel more alone as I pull back. “I shouldn’t have stayed in the panic room. I should’ve confronted my brother and negotiated with him somehow.”

“Then they would’ve taken you, too.” Abri approaches, her face full of worry as the beautiful little girl follows her. “We’ll bring him home. I swear, all the cartel will need is five minutes in his arrogant presence and they’ll kick him to the curb.”

I can’t summon a laugh. Can’t even fake a smile. Because she’s wrong. So incredibly, unmistakably wrong.

“Momma?” The little girl tugs at Abri’s hand. “Can I get a soda?”

“Juice,” Abri corrects, nudging her toward Bishop. “Go ask your dad to get it for you from behind the bar.”

The girl scurries off, all innocence and light, a cruel contrast to the darkness swallowing me whole. I slide a hand to my abdomen, to the last fragile piece of Salvatore I have left, and the world crumbles to ash beneath me.

Layla joins us, murmuring gentle words that don’t register, both her and Liv guiding me to a nearby couch to sit.

“I need to speak to Gabriel.” I grab my phone from my dress pocket. “Maybe he’ll listen?—”

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