Page 31 of Salvatore

“It’s three o’clock in the morning. Jesus Christ. I was asleep.”

I scowl at the security panel. “Just buzz me into the goddamn building.”

There’s a muted click of the door. Then the slam of what I assume is the guy’s phone.

I push at the handle, the glass panel opening before me. My adrenaline gains new life, the fucking thrill of unfamiliar excitement driving me up the stairs two at a time until I reach the second floor and the apartment with a tarnished gold number three on the wall.

I pound my fist against the door. “Open up, troublemaker.”

I can already picture her, hair disheveled from sleep, tits loose and nipples beading against the skimpy material of her pajamas.

I pound again. “Open the door, Ivy.”

The seconds pass like hours, my impatience for another verbal slinging match making my skin itch.

Open the goddamn fucking door.

I bang a third time, the thunderous pound rattling the nearby window at the front of the building until the only other apartment door on the floor opens and an older man in cartoon character boxers inches out.

“Is there a problem?” He squints at me, his face scrunched from sleep.

“Where’s Ivy?”

“I don’t know.” He blinks fast as if attempting to get his eyes to adjust to the light. “I didn’t hear her come in.”

“Is that normal?” Frustration bites at my tone. “Do you usually hear her? Does she tend to stay out this late?”

He yawns, exacerbating the wrinkles around his eyes. “She’s out late all the time on the weekends. And it’s not uncommon for her to come home with company.” A tight thud takes over my chest. “But she’s been in and out at different hours this week. Not going to work or following her usual habits. She mentioned something about a death and that she was spending time with friends. Maybe she’s with them.” He cocks his head, scrutinizing me. “Is she okay?”

I’m sure she is. That woman seems to be the type to constantly fall on her feet. What will happen after I get my hands on her is another question.

“For the time being.” I eye the door handle, fighting the need to break it. To snoop through her belongings. To take a silken prize or two. “But who knows what the future holds.” I return my gaze to his, finding the guy staring with concern. “If you see her, make sure she knows Salvatore stopped by.”

I make for the stairs and stride from the building.

Fifteen minutes later I’m driving past Olivia’s house, checking for the white Ford Fiesta that Ivy’s background check says she’s meant to drive.

I can’t picture her in such a basic car. Not someone who acts as if she rules the world and everyone in it.

But Ivy isn’t at Olivia’s house either.

There are no cars. No sign of life.

I check a few other places—the funeral home, the nearest police station parking lot—there’s no trace of her.

It’s less than an hour before sunrise when I drag my ass into my townhouse, my watch vibrating in response to the door motion-detector as I enter.

I grab a glass of water from the kitchen, wash down the lingering taste of stale liquor, and hunch over the counter, my hands clutching the granite as exhaustion takes hold.

I should text Remy about Ivy’s meddling. Should warn him to get his woman’s friend under control. But he’s been through enough, and he’d only deem my interference antagonistic.

At this point, perceptions are hard to break.

I’ll find Ivy soon enough. I’ll figure out what she knows and shut her down. I don’t need any help.

The faint glow of the sun begins to warm the sky when I finally kick off my shoes and crash onto the sofa. I rest my head on a cushion, close my eyes, and snarl at the vibration of an incoming text message in my pocket.

Bishop

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