Page 66 of Salvatore

I reach the front door, grab the handle, and pause. I don’t want to get mixed up in this. Mixed up inher.Getting suckedback into Ivy’s vortex would be a mistake. I’ve barely regained my train of thought after two weeks as is. “Tell me what you know.”

“There’s not a lot,” my brother says. “Ollie and Ivy haven’t spoken since that day we all found out about the connection with the cartel. Ivy said they needed space, but she hasn’t returned to work or been online as far as we can tell.”

I yank open Lorenzo’s front door and make my way across the pebbled drive to my rental. “So go to her apartment.”

“What a fabulous fucking idea, brother,” Remy drawls. “Why didn’t I think of?—”

“We did,” Olivia talks over him. “She isn’t there, and her neighbor says he hasn’t seen her in weeks. Not since someone fitting your description came sniffing around her front door in the middle of the night.”

The night I’d had her pinned to a wall in my brother’s club.

The very same night I would’ve killed to fuck her in the entry of Smoke & Mirrors.

My dick gets hard just thinking about it.

“Are you trying to imply that I’m involved?” I ask. “You do realize I went therebeforeyou saw her last.”

“I know.” Olivia agrees. “We already figured that out. But you haven’t been since, have you?”

“No.” No matter how many nights I was tempted to break into her apartment and slide beneath her sheets. And the PI who’d been watching the building had remained outside, only keeping tabs from a car parked down the road.

“This isn’t like her,” Olivia repeats. “Even if we were fighting—which we weren’t—she wouldn’t skip out on work like this. Not without at least calling. Something’s wrong, and I’m worried her family is involved. She told me they were abusive. What if they’ve found out about our association? What if they have her?”

Then her disappearance would be my fault. I’d be responsible for whatever hell Gabriel was unleashing upon her, and the possibility of that shit sits uncomfortably on my fucking shoulders.

I yank my car door open. “Leave it with me. I’ll make some calls.”

“And what if they do have her?” Remy asks. “What then?”

Then I guess I’ll need to decide whether or not a good lay is worth finally going behind Lorenzo’s back to wage war with the cartel.

16

IVY

I stareat my chipped black nails, the polish wearing thin as the gap between color and cuticle grows wider with each sunrise.

It’s been twenty-three days since I painted my nails. Sixteen of those have been spent in this pink room of psychological warfare. But a much-needed manicure is the least of my problems.

The thought of remaining here for the rest of my life is living rent-free at the top of my doom list.

I don’t have any form of communication with the outside world. At least not since my watch ran out of battery the day of imprisonment. If it were still working, I’d be able to see if Liv or Allison had sent texts or called. I’d even be able to reply. But the four auto responses ofYes,No,I’m on my way, andI’ll call you back laterwouldn’t really help my situation all that much anyway.

If I got caught communicating with the outside world I’d earn more physical abuse, and my mental stability is maxed out on that already.

So I’ve spent weeks staring at the surveillance cameras I dismantled on the ceiling, listening to the sounds of sex comingfrom different parts of the apartment. Thethud, thud, thudof furniture against walls. The fake moans. The directive critiques.

The whole place is a dedicated porn set. One I assume must have some sort of legitimacy seeing as though it’s in the heart of the city. Or maybe it’s a feeder location where they bring girls looking to step foot into the industry. Where they woo them and pretend the lifestyle is all skyscraper apartments and pristine furniture before the forced scenes and trafficking occurs.

But it’s quiet now. I hear the short sound bites from someone scrolling social media in the living room, and nothing else. I’m pretty sure it’s José—the gun-toting sidekick who helped bring me here.

I’ve been introduced to six different men during my stay—all with varying degrees of panic-inducing qualities—yet he’s always been the worst.

The one who likes to inflict pain.

For example, the black eye when I dared to ask for somewhere to place the wrappers from the continuous pile of junk food I’m delivered. Or the fat lip because I flushed the toilet during the middle of the night and woke him.

But the worst of it was four days ago, two days after I’d ran out of body soap and shampoo, and made the mistake of asking for more.

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