Page 22 of Oops Baby for the Mafia Boss
“What room?” Let’s see if his story is the same as the girl downstairs.
“Two,” he croaks.
Her room is empty. I’m hollow as I glare at it. Plain cream-coloured walls, a wooden floor. Cheap wardrobe. I open it, because I’m determined to torture myself, I guess.
Nothing. Spotless. Not even a sock, or a dust bunny. The mattress is stained, but everything else is impeccably clean.
She’s gone. And not the sort of gone that was snatched away. No. This was, if not exactly planned, definitely with the intent of getting her deposit back.
I return to the guy in room one, who is struggling into clothes.
“The landlord.”
He stops, and glances at me warily.
I hold out my hands to show I’ve holstered my gun. For now.
“That’s me. Or, it’s my dad, but I manage it. But I swear?—”
“Where is she?”
“She didn’t leave a forwarding address. I saw her room, I gave her the deposit, and she left. I don’t know where she is.”
My stomach turns to lead and my fingers itch to take out my rage on the nearest person. This kid.
But even I recognise that’s unfair.
She’s not here, and I don’t think this is the reason, sub-standard accommodation though it is.
“Smarten this place up,” I order, and walk out. There’s no need to tell him I’ll return to check. He knows I will, or he’s willing to risk it and die. I know which I’d choose.
Back at Mortlake, staff are streaming into the office block, covertly watching me, or scurrying away.
Not unwarranted. There have been several executions in the main foyer because the time I had available was shorter than the explanation for their total fuck up.
I do not ask lots of questions and balance the weight of probabilities. I trust my gut.
And sometimes that means I shoot people in the front entrance hall of Mortlake’s headquarters when their answers exceed even my capacity to listen.
Everything was simpler when I was just the enforcer for Mortlake and drawing blood was my job, then Camden had to go and kill the old kingpin, and what was I supposed to do? Let hisprick of a second-in-command take over and make it all bite-con this and i-tech that?
Clearly not.
My head is crowded with thoughts about what could have happened to Emily, but since it’s the beginning of the normal working day now, I stride to Emily’s office. I need more information, and her manager could have the key to finding her.
The craving to see Emily is as bad as withdrawal. My skin is tight, I’m hyper-focused on her, my pulse is elevated and I’m twitchy. I go down to the basement archive, slightly hoping this was all a mistake and she’ll be waiting for me.
Instead, a middle-aged man with a paunch and a receding blond hairline covered partly by a comb-over rises from the other, much larger desk as soon as I walk in, offering his hand.
“Mr Lunacharski,” he says promptly, “How can I help?”
I’m momentarily soothed by the fact he is forthcoming. I don’t think I’ve interacted directly with him before, because most of the senior management know the best way to stay ahead and alive is to have a good idea of why I’m there.
I point at Emily’s empty desk.
“Ah, yes. I’ve got a new hire arriving this morning.” He preens. “She’s younger, prettier, and will do the job better. Don’t worry, the digitisation will be done, Mr Lunacharski.”
People say fury is hot, but mine is cold. It freezes my body.
