Page 30 of Salvatore

How?

Why?

The midnight rush comes and goes. Patrons begin to clear out. The music dies down. But it isn’t until my cell vibrates with an incoming call that I snap out of my mental analysis, Lorenzo’s name alight on my screen when I pull it from my pocket.

“Yeah,” I say in greeting.

“Figlio,” he states in a tired Italian accent. “I’ve just received a call from an officer friend of mine about a woman claiming you’re involved in the abduction of Olivia Pelosi. Is this something I need to be concerned with?”

Fucking Ivy.

She may not need to die, but if she’s not careful she’ll sign her own death warrant.

“No.” I down the last of my bourbon. “I’ll handle it.”

“You’re aware of the problem?”

Not only aware, but deeply engrained in, highly attuned to, and fucking fixated on it.

“Yes,” I grate. “I know who she is. The woman works at the funeral home and saw me driving Remy and Olivia home after the wake. She came sniffing around Smoke & Mirrors earlier?—”

“Do I have to outline the complications that may arise if the authorities?—”

“No.” I also don’t appreciate the insinuation of my idiocy. “I said I’ll handle it.”

“Good. The officer advised it’s too early to file a missing person’s report, so this is being kept between us for now. I’d prefer if it remained that way.”

“Understood.” I disconnect the call and slide from the booth, leaving the club via the underground parking lot in a new black Porsche 911 Turbo rental.

I navigate to my email inbox as I drive toward the outer suburbs near the funeral home. I pull up Ivy’s previous background check as I navigate the dark residential streets, locate her address, then add it to my GPS.

I take corners at speed and run amber lights while typing her number into a new text message.

I warned you not to cross me. You won’t get another chance.

I should’ve refrained from contacting her until I reached her door. The element of surprise and all that. But the kick of adrenaline is thick in my veins, the anticipation for another reunion making my exhaustion nonexistent.

I pull to a stop beside a moonlit three-story apartment building, the grey exterior highlighted with large bay windows and two balconies on each floor, all situated above a lower level made up of an entry foyer in the middle of three parking garages on either side.

Six apartments in total.

Ivy’s is number three.

I cut the engine and make my way to the illuminated foyer, the glass doors locked with a security panel on the right with an intercom for each apartment beside it.

I press her number, the grating buzz deafening in the silence of the night.

I wait. And wait some fucking more.

There’s nothing. No response. No seductive yet snide female voice.

I press her number again, and again, and again.

Still nothing.

I press number six, then number five. I’m about to slam all the numbers like an arcade game when a grated male voice comes through the speaker. “What the hell? Who is this?”

“I’m detective Lucas Grant. I require access to the building to do a welfare check on a resident.”

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