41. Gabriel
The next day…
I'm back to stalking her again. Twenty of my most trusted men are on rotation, watching her every move, reporting back to me like clockwork. Keeping her safe. I hate every goddamn second of it.
When I got the call that Audra had tricked my guards, set a fire in my fucking kitchen, and walked out of the penthouse like it was a goddamn hotel lobby… I saw red. Pure, blinding rage, the same kind I felt at the warehouse.
The four men responsible stood in front of my desk with their heads bowed. They knew what was coming. I didn't raise my voice. I didn't need to.
"Hands."
One word. That's all it took. They laid their hands on the desk without argument. The blade was clean. Quick. Four fingers, one from each man. A reminder. A message. You do not lose what's mine.
They were lucky that's all I took.
Now I'm in my office, watching the security footage for the tenth time.
Audra, moving through my kitchen like a shadow, calm and calculated, starting that fire with the precision of someone who grew up around dangerous men.
The way she raised the gun she lifted from the kitchen…
fuck. It was reckless. It was brilliant.
And it was so goddamn hot I had to pause the video and jerk off.
That woman is going to be the death of me.
I lean back in my chair, dragging a hand through my hair as a low, rough chuckle escapes me. Not many people could walk out on me and live to tell about it. But she didn't just run, she planned. She executed. And some sick, possessive part of me is stupidly proud.
I miss her.
It's only been one night—twenty-two hours—and the penthouse feels like a tomb without her. The bed is too big. The silence is too loud. My hand in the shower this morning wasn't even close to enough. Not after I've had a taste of her fire.
She's staying at her old house. She begged Brick to take her there. And he did, right after he called me.
"She needs some alone time," the bastard explained, like he'd suddenly turned into a fucking therapist. "Something happened with Kelly."
I almost ordered him to drag her back here.
Almost sent men to Kelly's house to find out exactly what that bitch said to upset her.
But I held back. Barely. Not because I suddenly grew a conscience.
No. I held back because I could picture the look on Audra's face if I touched her precious mother-in-law.
So I let her go to that old house. For now.
I doubled the men watching her. If Salazar even breathes in that direction, I'll pull her out of there myself, kicking and screaming if I have to. She can hate me for it. I don't care. As long as she's breathing.
I hit play on the footage again. Watch her slip out of the penthouse, fire alarms blaring behind her. My lips curve despite myself.
Run, little trouble. Get your head straight.
But when you come back—and you will come back—I'm done giving you space. You're mine. And I don't lose what's mine.
I console myself that I can bring her back. Right now. I know where she is. Where she sleeps. Where she eats. Who she talks to. Who she avoids. I can walk into that crappy little house she's hiding in—pin her against the wall—and remind her exactly who she belongs to…
Tempting, so fucking tempting. I don't, though.
Because as much as it goes against every instinct I have, I understand.
She needs time. To process her grief. What happened in the warehouse.
Whatever Kelly said to her. No matter how much I just want it all to go away, I have to respect the fact that she's grieving her husband.
Even if it means letting her put distance between us.
Even if it means I get driven fucking insane because I'm not a patient man.
Especially not after I sampled her. That sex was…
I still get hard just thinking about it. Her.
How much time does someone need to grieve?
I slam my fist against the desk as I think about how much Catarina still means to me, even after three years.
Fuck. No! I'm not waiting three fucking years for her to get over that little piece of shit.
And what happened to her wanting revenge? I thought we had an understanding?
Thank fuck the search for Salazar and the Collector will keep me busy enough not to think about her every fucking second of the day. I drag a hand through my hair again, tension coiling tighter in my chest. I welcome it when my phone rings. Massimo. "Yeah."
"We've got something," he comes straight to the point.
I straighten instantly. "On who?" He needs to be more specific. We're looking for a shitload of people right now.
"The girl," he replies. "And the kid."
A slow, sharp smile pulls at my mouth. Finally.
"About fucking time," I mutter, already moving for the door. "Where's Damiano?"
"On his way to pick her up."
"No," I cut in immediately. "He's not touching her without me."
A pause. Massimo exhales softly on the other end. Amused. Knowing I need the distraction.
"Figured you'd say that." A text dings. "That's the location. Damiano is waiting for you there."
I'm already down the hallway.
Massimo warns, "Gabe." I pause just before stepping into the elevator. "Don't let this turn into something it shouldn't."
My grip tightens around the phone. Too late for that. I need a distraction, and this woman might just be it. She's involved with El Recaudador somehow, and I'll figure out exactly how and why. God help her if she had anything to do with Catarina.
"It already is," I grind out, and hang up.
The elevator doors slide shut. I text Mauro to get a car ready. We only need one, and I only need him. It's just a girl and a kid.
On the way to Damiano's location, I muse that in my current mood it'll be easy to appear like he and the rest of us are on the outs.
Twenty minutes later, the Escalade rolls to a stop in front of a motel that should've been condemned a decade ago.
Flickering neon lights with half the letters burned out struggle to spell out what used to be Bayshore Atlantic Terrace Executive Suites Inn.
If that wasn't preposterous enough, now with the way the lights flicker, they spell: B A TES INN.
Close enough to recognize. Far enough to feel wrong. It doesn't look like executive suites, more like the kind of place people disappear in. I step out, and the heat hits me like a wall, thick with dust and something sour I don't want to identify.
Damiano is already there. He kicks something across the pavement, a rat that scurries off with an offended squeal.
"Fucking shithole," he mutters.
I walk up beside him, eyes already scanning the shitty place. "What do we know?"
"She's in there." He jerks his chin toward a door that looks like it could come apart if you breathed on it wrong. "Hasn't come out in hours. Kid's with her."
I crack my neck, rolling my shoulders once. "Let's go get her."
Damiano glances at me, a flicker of something sharper moving through his expression, tucked behind his usual chaos. "You good?"
"I'm good," I lie evenly. Right now, I'm exactly where I need to be. "Let's get to that motherfucking Collector, one way or another."
His grin stretches wide. Unhinged. Anticipation crackles off him.
"Yeah," he agrees. "She knows something."
Maybe. Or maybe she's just unlucky. Either way, she'll be useful. A small, detached part of me almost feels sorry for her. Almost.
Without a knock, Damiano kicks the door in. It slams against the wall with a crack that echoes through the room.
"Don't—"
The word dies in my throat. Because the room is empty. The bed unmade and the sheets still warm. A forgotten backpack lies half-zipped on the floor. A beep catches my attention. With my gun raised, I turn and nearly shoot the fucking microwave.
"They were just here," Damiano concludes, rushing to the bathroom.
The window is open. My gaze snaps to it just as I notice movement in the back alley. Then a blur.
"Shit—"
I'm running out of the room, underneath a sagging staircase toward the back. We reach the other side just in time to see her disappear around the corner, back to the parking lot.
"The car," Mauro curses behind me. "I left it running."
"Fucking hell." Damiano takes the words out of my mouth.
She's halfway across the parking lot, one hand gripping a small boy's wrist, the other dragging a duffel bag. She's fast.
Mauro stops, spreads his arms to hold us back.
"What?" I demand.
The girl tosses the kid into the Escalade and jumps in behind him. Mauro holds out a key. The Escalade reverses.
"Now," he yells. Because the keys are not in the car, the Escalade won't leave the parking lot, giving us time to catch up to it.
She reaches the edge of the lot, and the Escalade stops. I can see her panicked face behind the windshield. Her hands hammer the steering wheel in frustration. Not for long, though. She sees us advancing and gets out of the car. She points for the kid to run to the office, but he hesitates.
"Go!" she snaps.
The boy takes off, and she faces us. My steps slow. Because most people don't do that. Most people run. She doesn't. Her hand slips into her bag.
Damiano laughs. "Oh, this should be fun."
Instead of a gun, she pulls out a small glass bottle. My eyes narrow, and I recognize the short piece of fabric coming out of the bottle neck. She's holding a fucking Molotov Cocktail. Who the hell is this woman?
"Fuck me," Damiano grunts.
Mauro is falling back, and knowing him, he'll circle around trying to get her from behind.
"Stop right there!" she warns in an unshaken voice. "I'm not the one you want."
"Everybody's the one I want," Damiano says with a grin, still advancing.
She flicks a lighter. The flame catches. The liquid sloshes dangerously close to her hand, and so does the little strip of fabric.
"You take another step," she warns, eyes locked on him, "and I burn your pretty mug."
There is no doubt in my mind that she'll do it, without hesitation, not caring one bit if she goes down with it. Damiano doesn't stop.
"Damiano," I warn.
"Careful, bella," he coos lightly. "You're gonna hurt yourself."
Wrong move. Fucking psychotic asshole. I'm not even sure if I'm referring to her or him.
She throws it, not at Damiano, but at the ground between us, the only way to stop both of us. Glass shatters. Flames erupt instantly, and a wall of fire cuts across the lot. Heat blasts outward. Smoke rises fast.
"Fuck—" Damiano steps back, laughing now. "I like her!"
I don't. Because while he's entertained, she's already moving. Gone. Running in the opposite direction. Not toward the kid. Away. Drawing us off him.
I stare through the flames for half a second longer than I should. Then I exhale slowly. "She split us."
Damiano's grin widens. "Yeah. She did."
Damiano cracks his knuckles. "Dibs on the girl."
I roll my eyes. "Mauro got the kid. Let's go."
And just like that, the hunt begins.