54. Ethan
I drop my car keys on the kitchen counter and bend over the marble surface, my hands sliding into my hair as I let out a frustrated sigh.
What the fuck am I supposed to do now?
The Balmont Boys are going trying to figure out where Angelo might have taken Cassidy, but since they haven’t called yet, they must be just as stumped as I am.
We don’t even know how the hell he got her out of the office park without someone noticing. A normal person would have called the cops by now, but they’d be more interested in searching the Devil’s Den and interrogating Myles than finding Cassidy.
I straighten, staring around the empty penthouse, my jaw so tight the muscles under my skin twitch.
He had an hour or more lead on us, too. That could mean he’s well outside of the city already.
I slam my fist into the fridge, and stare at the dent in the silver door.
If I stay here a second longer, I’ll destroy this entire fucking penthouse.
Not just because it’s possible Angelo has Cassidy…but because there’s a possibility he doesn’t have her.
And fuck Richmond for bringing that up.
But goddamn it, it could be true.
There’s no way for us to prove that she contacted Angelo. That she met with him. That, if she did, they met at the office park. They definitely didn’t go to his house—Troy went through that entire place with a fine-toothed comb.
Cassidy could just have left.
Like Becks.
Like Cassidy’s own mother.
I turn on my heel, snatching the keys off the counter. I can’t stay here. Not that I have a fucking clue where else to go. Maybe I’ll just go sit in the bar and work my way through a bottle of whiskey.
That was the only thing that helped when Becks left me. The only way I could drown out the misery in my head.
My steps slow as I make eye contact with Lady Agnew. I stop in front of the painting, staring her down like we’re in a blinking contest.
Is this Myles’s way of punishing me for retiring? Because as awed as I am by this painting, her being here makes me feel like a fucking accomplice to kidnapping.
Fuck this.
I go back into the kitchen and fetch my Bentley’s keys from the decorative mother-of-pearl bowl on the counter. Then I call Jim and ask him to send up a bellhop to help me with some packages.
I’m not spending the night alone with Lady Agnew. And there’s only one place where she’ll be safe.
I’m going too fast, but I can’t seem to slow down. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m driving around with a priceless stolen artwork wedged in the back of my G-Wagon. It feels like Lady Agnew is breathing down my fucking neck, cussing me out every time I take a corner a little too sharply.
Halfway back to Glenmont Manor, though, I almost turn around again.
What the fuck am I doing?
The sale will go through in a few weeks. I’ll have to come back to Glenmont to collect the last of my things, anyway.
But that’s Future Me’s problem.
Right now, I need something to keep my mind occupied, and driving at a reckless eighty-miles-an-hour down a dirt road with a painting stolen from the Scottish National Gallery in the back of my G-Wagon seems like an excellent distraction.
I turn off into Glenmont’s driveway—a long, cobblestone path that winds its way from the wrought-iron gates all the way to the circular gravel drive in front of the manor.
But there are a few paths branching off. One leading to the disused stables, another to a scenic picnic spot much farther into the estate.
And the narrow dirt road that heads straight for the family crypt.
When Becks discovered it, she was adamant. “Just so you know, there’s no way you’re putting me in that crypt when I die.”
When I asked her exactly what I should do with her remains, she shrugged and, super nonchalant, replied, “Throw my ashes into the sea or something.”
The dark hulk of Glenmont blocks out the moon for a moment as I pass, then my path is illuminated again, but I don’t dare speed up on such a bumpy road with my precious cargo.
I’ll have to hire a moving van to fetch the last of my things from the manor. Including Lady Agnew, if I’ve found a new home for her by then.
I groan and shake my head.
Maybe I should just call Myles and tell him I don’t want the painting. I’m sure he could launder some of the mob’s money by selling it to a collector. The fact that I haven’t seen anything announced on the news about a theft from the National Gallery in Edinburgh means that he—or someone working for him—must have replaced it with a forgery.
Fuck, how I wish he’d just given me a replica instead.
Myles’s so fucking extra.
I hit a rut in the road, wincing as the truck shakes.
“Call Myles,” I bark.
There’s a moment’s delay, and then my console lights up as it makes the call. The phone rings for so long that I’m sure he won’t answer, but just as I’m about to hang up, he answers.
“If we had something, we’d have—” he begins, but I cut him off.
“Listen, I can’t keep Lady Agnew,” I tell him. “I’m dropping her off at the manor now, but I need you to get rid of her before the end of the month.”
“What’s happening end of the month?”
“I’ve sold Glenmont.”
“Aw, congrats! Who’s the new owner?”
“Fucked if I care. Tell me you’ll get rid of her, Myles.”
He laughs. “Yeah, fine, you ungrateful son of a bitch.”
I can’t help but smile. “I mean, it was a kind gesture, but—wait, hold on.”
Myles must hear the sudden uneasiness in my voice, because he stops talking immediately.
I slow down my truck, and then hesitate before switching off my headlights. There’s enough moonlight for me to make out the road, the entrance to the crypt up ahead, and a black panel van parked out front.
Someone’s trespassing on my property.
“Ethan?” Myles says quietly. “You still there?”
I stop my Mercedes. Let it idle. Turn off the ignition. “How soon can you get to Glenmont?”
“Forty-five minutes, give or take. What’s happened?”
“He’s here. Angelo’s parked in front of the crypt.”
“You fucking wait for us to get there,” Myles says.
“He’s here, Myles. What if she’s here too?”
“Ethan, listen to me. You don’t fucking go in there alone.”
He’s right. Logically, it makes sense to wait. Angelo has had Cassidy for over an hour. The chances of her still being alive are?—
“I still have Smith’s gun. I’ll be fine.” I end the call before Myles can try to talk me out of it. I immediately switch my phone to silent, knowing he’ll try to phone back.
Taking out the Glock, I keep both hands wrapped around the grip as I hurry over to the crypt’s entrance. I ease my way inside, creeping down the narrow stairs. There’s nothing I can do about the crunch of grit under my boots, or that anyone in the chamber below can look up and see me coming.
But when I clear the stairs and step into the antechamber, it’s empty.
Well, there aren’t people in it, but it’s far from empty.
I’ve always appreciated the finer things. It started with my interest in precious stones. Long hours spent at my father’s side in his workshop as he taught me everything he knew about gems.
After I met Myles and the money started flowing in, I was too scared to bank it, too nervous to flaunt it. So I started buying gems, art, bearer bonds, and any other money-laundering friendly assets I could get my hands on. It was only after Smith started helping me to launder my own money that I bought Glenmont. Finally, I had a place to store all my ill-begotten goods.
I was shocked when I came here the other day.
I’d forgotten how much shit I was hoarding.