Chapter 28
Chapter
Twenty-Eight
RAFFAEL
I land in Washington, D.C., with a knot in my throat and a mind rabid for answers.
Eliseo doesn’t get back to me until the jet is on the ground, and when he does, there’s no useful information. He didn’t notice Isla was missing. He didn’t pay enough attention to protect her. He assumed she was laying low inside her apartment.
It’s a failure I intend to punish once I get her back.
But first I have to find, and deal with, my cousin.
I stop at the gates to Langston’s property, the towering steel barriers opening seconds after I press the gatehouse buzzer.
I’m not surprised the fucker is expecting me. I’m sure he has a sixth sense for trouble, especially when he’s the cause of it.
I continue up the long, tree-lined drive, prepared to change the trajectory of my life for the sake of Isla’s. I park before the obscenely ostentatious home—marble steps, a carved archway, large bay windows that mirror the sky. Then I slide out of my rental and stalk straight for the entry.
No sooner do I knock than one of the doors opens and Langston is there, his smarmy welcoming smile triggering a rush of heated rage. “Welcome, cous—”
I lunge forward, pull a gun, and press it to his sternum. “We need to talk.”
His synthetic smile falters as he looks down at the barrel the same way someone would inspect an insect on their shirt. “You’re lucky my wife isn’t here to see this.”
“You’re lucky I still have the barest thread of discipline, otherwise those you care about would currently be mourning your loss.
Now tell me what the fuck you’ve done with Isla.
” I back him into the foyer, his cloying arrogance poking at my anger.
I jab his chest with the gun over and over, driving him down the hall and into the living room—a large, sun-flooded space with a glass coffee table and a long white sofa I can already imagine splattered with his blood.
I direct him into the furniture. “Sit.”
“I suggest you take a breath.” He sinks into the cushions. “Is this your first time threatening someone with a deadly weapon?”
“Where is she?”
He quirks a judgmental brow. “What did I tell you about emotions leading to complications?”
I raise my aim between his eyes.
He doesn’t acknowledge the escalation. Instead, he cocks his head, slow, scrutinizing me like I’m a curiosity. “Does it look like I’m entertaining guests? Check the house if you want.”
“Where’s Bishop?” I demand.
“I recommend not getting him involved. He wouldn’t tolerate this type of misstep.”
“I don’t give a fuck. I want to know where he is, and where you’re holding Isla.”
He stretches his arms along the backrest of the sofa, the picture of relaxation. “He’s vacationing in Cabo with my sister and their daughter. Neither of us are a part of whatever it is you’re accusing us of.”
“Don’t lie to me.” I battle the temptation to blow his brains all over his Art Deco interior.
“I wouldn’t lie to you, cousin.” He reaches for the inside of his jacket.
“Hands where I can see them.” I jab the gun closer.
Langston rolls his eyes, slowing his reach but continuing all the same. He retrieves his cell and, with the composure of a man who believes he’s untouchable, unlocks it and hands it over. “Check my messages. The most recent is from my niece.”
I snatch the device and thumb through to the conversation menu. I find the text thread in question and stare at the latest exchange—a sun-drenched photo of a young girl in a bathing suit, sand in her hair, with Bishop standing beside her, caught mid-laugh.
I shake my head. This has to be a fake alibi. Langston can’t be here while Bishop is in Cabo. One of them has to have Isla. Unless… “Did you kill her?”
“Jesus Christ.” He snatches his cell back.
“You may act like you don’t want to become your father, but on the yacht I recognized a man willing to go to brutal lengths for a woman.
So there’s no way I would’ve reinstated contact without your approval.
And Bishop’s vindictive nature has mellowed now that he has a family. ”
Fuck.
I scrub a rough hand over the back of my neck. “Who else would take her? Did my father appoint more men to manage the agreement?”
Langston shrugs. “Potentially.”
Dread seizes my chest.
If this son of a bitch isn’t lying, Isla could be anywhere. With anyone.
I’ll have to contract private investigators. Organize mercenaries. Prepare for war—professional, physical, whatever the fuck it takes. And by then it might be too late. Who knows if it already is?
“Instead of holding me accountable, cousin,” Langston drawls, “why not ask me for help?”
I don’t want his goddamn help. I don’t appreciate that I’m here at all, associated with his existence, in his fucking presence. But pride and preference aren’t privileges I can indulge when Isla’s life is on the line.
I lower the gun a fraction, resigned to do what’s necessary, when he launches from the sofa and shoulder-charges me. I’m knocked backward and slammed into the glass coffee table. It shatters beneath us. I hit the carpet, Langston on top of me, a knife pressed under my chin, the tip piercing skin.
His eyes gleam with scorn. “Don’t ever pull a fucking gun on me again unless you intend to tap the trigger. Understood?”
I rage to tear his throat out. Every instinct roars for retaliation. But his death won’t get me to Isla any quicker.
“Understood?” He digs the blade deeper.
“Understood,” I snarl.
“Good.” He grins, retracts the blade, and pushes to his feet, offering me a hand.
“Your father was a great man. It would’ve been unfortunate if I had to be the one to make the two of you reunite.
Although I’m sure wherever he is he’s getting a kick out of the balls it took for you to come at me in my own home. ”
I ignore his hand, along with the sensation of blood trickling down my neck, and sit up.
“Would you like my assistance in finding your woman?” he asks.
I glower, vibrating with fury.
“Now’s not the time to hold a grudge,” he drawls with smug satisfaction. “Especially when your favorite cousin arranged for your chief stew to place a precautionary tracker with Isla’s belongings while on the yacht.” He palms his phone and scrolls the screen. “Let’s see if it still works.”