Salvatore

44. Ivy

44

IVY

I slap a hand over my mouth, holding in a scream as Salvatore falls to the floor in a limp heap—not from the gunshot I expect, but a savage blow to the back of the head.

I text another frantic message to Liv.

Ivy

Tell Remy to hurry. They have Salvatore.

I fixate on the security monitors, my gaze narrowed on his still form while my brother stands over him, gun pointed. Alonso speaks, his mouth moving quickly before two men rise from behind the sofa, one clutching a bloodied hand to his stomach.

They fan out, sweeping the penthouse, searching for me.

It’s Alonso who strides into the office, a smirk of approval spreading his lips on his approach to Lorenzo’s body.

I hold my breath, too afraid to flinch.

His boot slams into the ribs of Salvatore’s uncle, then he fires two gunshots into the dead man’s chest.

My heart is lodged in my throat as I type another text.

Ivy

Liv, please hurry.

Liv

Remy’s on his way. I promise.

Ivy

I have to leave the panic room to save Salvatore.

Liv

DON’T YOU FUCKING DARE. REMY WILL BE THERE SOON.

Please just wait.

But it’s torture sitting here, drowning in helplessness.

Alonso treks across the numerous monitors, down the hall, back into the living area. His men meet him in the kitchen, the blood-torn one hunched against the island counter as they circle Salvatore laid out on the floor.

Then I’m forced to watch as they grab him—hands and feet—and drag him toward the penthouse door.

Everything burns—my throat, my eyes, my chest.

Ivy

My brother is taking him.

I dig my nails into my palms, desperate for Salvatore to wake up. To tell me the right thing to do. But then they’re gone, leaving me to slide to the floor in a mess as I whimper, cry, finally scream.

I rock in place, my arms circling my legs, grief shrieking inside my skull for what feels like an eternity.

He’s gone. As good as dead. They’ll never let him live.

Sobs wrench from me, squeezing my ribs. I’m midway through a gulp of air when the panic room door slides open and Remy moves to stand before me, his grim eyes taking me in.

“Are you hurt?” he asks.

“They took him.” I scramble to my feet, swiping the moisture from my cheeks. “They killed Lorenzo.”

His jaw ticks as he nods. “But you’re okay?”

“Yes. We need to find Salvatore.”

“Do you know where they would’ve taken him? I presume not the same building you were kept.”

I shake my head, unable to think, barely able to breathe. “I don’t know. I haven’t had anything to do with my family in years.”

He straightens, seeming to steel himself against the dead end before pulling out his phone to start typing. “I’ll get our men searching. They can’t have gone far.” He steps to the side, allowing me space to escape the claustrophobic room into the office that smells of gunpowder and death.

Matthew kneels beside Lorenzo, his head bowed.

They both stare at the fallen patriarch. Silent. Steadfast.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry.”

Matthew’s glassy eyes meet mine, the vengeance hidden in the moistened depths capable of making me fear for my life if I wasn’t already maxed out on the emotion.

“You didn’t do this,” he snarls, climbing to his feet. “But those who did will pay.” He jerks his chin toward the door and glances at his watch. “Come on. We need to get you out of here. The cops won’t ignore what’s going on forever.”

I’m escorted from the penthouse, past bodies and blood, into the corridor that’s far worse. Lorenzo’s guards have been massacred, their heads littered with bullets, making them unrecognizable.

“Try not to look,” Remy mutters. “That shit’ll stick with you.”

I focus straight ahead at the elevator doors, but it’s not the surrounding carnage that haunts me. It’s the memory of Salvatore in that kitchen, surrounded, fighting for his life.

Fighting for me.

We descend to the parking lot. I’m helped into another waiting Suburban, then driven through the city, down back roads and side streets, into a secluded alley where the vehicle stops beside a brick building with an unmarked steel door.

Men surround the vehicle, stone-faced, criminally inclined.

They help me from the car and usher me into the building, down a flight of stairs, past rows of empty industrial shelves. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, bouncing off concrete and steel. Two doors marked as bathrooms sit off to the side, their chipped signs barely hanging on.

“It’s this way.” Matthew steers me toward a battered wooden closet in the far corner and wrenches open the door, shoving aside hanging clothes. “In here.”

Panic grips me. A closet?

“It’s okay.” Remy’s voice is steady behind us. “Ollie’s inside.”

“This was used during prohibition.” Matthew pulls aside more clothes, revealing a narrow passage. Beyond it, there’s a dimly lit bar—dusty and abandoned, yet filled with a handful of familiar faces.

“Liv?” Her name is ripped from my throat as I shove through, pushing past old jackets to reach the room.

She breaks from her small circle—Layla, Abri, and Bishop, along with a little girl—and rushes for me, crushing me in a hug.

“Lorenzo’s dead.” I cling to her, squeezing my eyes shut. “They took Salvatore.”

“I know.” She cradles my head with her hand. “Remy will find him. I know he will.”

I wither under the placation, the unjust optimism making me feel more alone as I pull back. “I shouldn’t have stayed in the panic room. I should’ve confronted my brother and negotiated with him somehow.”

“Then they would’ve taken you, too.” Abri approaches, her face full of worry as the beautiful little girl follows her. “We’ll bring him home. I swear, all the cartel will need is five minutes in his arrogant presence and they’ll kick him to the curb.”

I can’t summon a laugh. Can’t even fake a smile. Because she’s wrong. So incredibly, unmistakably wrong.

“Momma?” The little girl tugs at Abri’s hand. “Can I get a soda?”

“Juice,” Abri corrects, nudging her toward Bishop. “Go ask your dad to get it for you from behind the bar.”

The girl scurries off, all innocence and light, a cruel contrast to the darkness swallowing me whole. I slide a hand to my abdomen, to the last fragile piece of Salvatore I have left, and the world crumbles to ash beneath me.

Layla joins us, murmuring gentle words that don’t register, both her and Liv guiding me to a nearby couch to sit.

“I need to speak to Gabriel.” I grab my phone from my dress pocket. “Maybe he’ll listen?—”

“Don’t.” Abri stays me with gentle fingers. “Let my brothers handle it. They know what they’re doing.”

No, they don’t. All I hear is talk of mobilizing more men, more weapons, heavier artillery.

“They can’t just storm in there,” I plead. “Gabriel will kill Salvatore straight away.”

I’m dismissed with a fleeting glance. Forced to sit there, on edge whenever someone answers a call or dials a number, clinging to hope that something will change. But nothing does.

There are murmurs of weaponized drones, explosives, attack dogs.

They don’t understand that it will only take a second for Gabriel to end Salvatore’s life if he thinks they’re under threat.

More people enter the bar—suit-clad, professional in appearance, a beautiful blonde woman in tow—their icy presence enough to change the energy in the room.

“Don’t look so worried. That’s my brother and his associates.” Layla squeezes my knee and stands. “They’re here to help.”

I stay planted on the couch as quiet greetings are spoken, handshakes exchanged, and some hugs, too.

It’s surreal, these people making nice while Salvatore suffers.

“I want to help search.” I push to my feet. “Can I borrow someone’s car?”

A few heads turn, their expressions ranging from concern to something worse—thinly veiled pity.

Then one of the newcomers strolls toward me—dark eyes, dark hair, an air of controlled menace. Power clings to him, sharp-edged and lethal.

His gaze drags over me, appraising. “You’re Gabriel’s daughter?”

I straighten in offense. “I was .”

His mouth twitches, almost amused. “My condolences on the parentage.” He holds out a hand. “Cole Torian.”

I hesitate a moment before taking his offering. “Ivy Diaz.”

We shake, the contact firm and brief before he glances over his shoulder at the two men approaching. “These are my most trusted—and most lethal—men.”

He gestures first to the bearded one with dark blond hair, his broad frame a wall of restrained violence. “Hunter.” Then to the other—dark-haired, sharp-eyed, tattoos crawling up from beneath the collar of his button-down. “Decker.”

The intimidating duo acknowledge me with terse nods.

“And this is Sarah.” Cole tilts his head toward the blonde sauntering forward like a deadly storm in a designer pantsuit. “She’s more savage than the men.”

“Hi.” The woman smiles, her razor-edged beauty momentarily softening.

“ Hi .” My tone isn’t as welcoming. “Have you got a car I can borrow or not?”

Her smile deepens, turning devious.

“Sarah,” Hunter warns. “You two aren’t going anywhere.”

“Not yet.” The woman keeps her gaze on me, studying. “But where would you go if you could get out of here? Obviously you have somewhere in mind.”

“The home I grew up in. The apartment I was held?—”

“She’s been out of the loop for a decade.” Matthew rakes a rough hand through his hair. “We need to focus on how we’re going to attack once our sources do finally find him. I don’t want to waste a?—”

“That’s not the way to approach this,” I plead. “You need to let me try to negotiate.”

“Salvatore would rather die than have us risk your life. I’m not doing that to him. End of story.”

He’s about to head back toward the bar, but Remy stops him with a hand to the chest, his expression stark as he holds up his phone for his brother to see.

“What is it?” I ask.

Matthew scrubs a palm over his mouth, his torment palpable.

“Remy?” Abri moves toward them, her face slackening as she absorbs what’s on the screen.

“Is it Gabriel?” I push past Torian and his men. “Show me.”

Abri shakes her head. “You don’t want to?—”

“ Show me .” I jog the few feet between us and snatch the cell from Remy, my heart crumpling into brittle shards at the image of Salvatore, shirtless, bloodied, beaten, his head hanging forward while he stands chained to a sandstone wall.

Unknown number

Return my daughter to my apartment in the city or your brother’s torture continues.

I breathe through the nausea. Square my shoulders against the guilt. “Who’s taking me?” I glance at them in turn, getting blank stares in reply. I shove the cell into Remy’s chest. “ Who’s taking me ?”

“Nobody is taking you anywhere,” Bishop snarls. “Salvatore would never forgive us.”

“ I will never forgive you.” I glare, cutting my attention back to Remy. “I want to leave.”

He winces, the precursor to a denial.

“Ivy…” Liv places a consoling hand on my arm. “They’re not going to hand you over, and it’s not safe to?—”

“ Don’t .” I shrug away her touch, my eyes still narrowed slits aimed at Salvatore’s youngest brother. “You’re going about this all wrong. You can’t just attack once you find where he is.”

“We can if they have no men,” Matthew says, the words clipped. “There’s whispers that most of the cartel have fled, already fearing our retaliation.”

“But Lorenzo said they called in reinforcements from New York,” I counter.

“Which remains to be seen,” Bishop growls.

“But they could still be here, right?” I glance from one man to the next, none of them willing to confirm or deny my theory. “You could walk into an ambush. And it only takes one man to pull the trigger on Salvatore.”

Matthew’s eyes harden. “He wouldn’t want you involved, and that’s final. All you’re doing is distracting us and wasting our time.”

The accusation cuts deep, slicing through bone.

“Hey, why don’t we go to the ladies’ room and freshen up?” Sarah’s fingers skirt my wrist, lightly tugging. “We’ll take a breath and come back with clear heads.”

I don’t need a clear head. Everything is already crystal. But my feet move of their own volition, following along beside her, my need for space suffocating.

“Sarah…” Hunter warns.

“What?” The woman scowls playfully at him. “I’m just giving her a time-out. We’ll be back soon.”

She leads me through the closet entry into the storage room and past the swinging bathroom doors.

Inside is surprisingly new—renovated, fresh paint, clean tiles, dust-covered stone vanity—all the pretty in contrast to the worn features staring back at me in the mirror.

“We’re running out of time.” I hang my head, slipping closer toward breakdown territory.

“Is there a clock I don’t know about?” Sarah cocks her hip against the vanity, her aura exuding confidence.

“My brother is volatile. He won’t have the patience to keep Salvatore alive for long.”

“But he is alive. Take solace in that. Did you recognize anything from the picture they sent?”

“No.” Maybe .

I know Salvatore isn’t at the apartment where I was previously held. The sandstone bricks that housed his shackles seemed vaguely familiar though. Possibly from a property I visited in my childhood. One that didn’t belong to my parents, but my now deceased uncle.

I’m not ready to tell her that, though.

I’m not sure I can trust any of these people anymore.

Sarah watches me… Reads me… “You’re pregnant, right?”

A faint tingle spreads through my abdomen, a quiet reminder of the life I carry. “Yes.”

“But you disagree about Salvatore wanting you involved in his rescue? Do you really think he’s the type to want you risking your life and that of his child?”

I raise my chin. “No, he isn’t that type. But I’m someone who understands he’s never had anyone willing to fight for him before. He risked everything for me. The least I can do is give a little in return.”

Her eyes sadden. “Ivy, you wouldn’t be giving a little.”

“Well, it’s all I have.” I lower my gaze to the dust-covered vanity. “He doesn’t want to die. And I don’t want to raise this baby without him.”

She’s quiet a moment, the weight of my confession stifling. “Do you want to know what my type is?”

I honestly couldn’t give a rat’s a?—

“I’m someone who believes women are capable of anything,” she continues. “We can be just as lethal as men. Just as covert. Just as brave. I’d never dismiss what you felt was right.” Her hand grazes my shoulder, coasting over the strap of my sundress. “But you need to really think about this. Going against his brothers’ wishes, and moving forward with a plan that doesn’t merely risk your life but is highly likely to end it isn’t something you want to be contemplating when it’s too late.”

She falls quiet, letting me wallow in my thoughts before finally pushing off the vanity. “I need to use the bathroom.” She reaches inside her suit jacket, retrieving a gun from a holster, then a car fob from her pocket. “Can I leave these here with you so they don’t fall into the bowl?”

I stare at her. At the gun. At the fob.

“I’ll only be a minute.” She places the items on the vanity. “I don’t want Abri’s little girl coming in here and getting her hands on a deadly weapon. My reputation is reckless enough as it is.”

Is she baiting me?

“Yeah…” I swallow. “Sure.”

“Thanks.” She strolls for a stall, swinging the door shut behind her as she whistles what sounds like “Run the World (Girls)” by Beyoncé.

“Did you drive here?” I ask. “I thought someone said Cole lived on the other side of the country.”

“We flew in from Portland. The car’s a rental. A shiny black Camaro that runs like a dream.”

My pulse increases as I inch toward Sarah’s belongings, already sensing the slow death that will torment me if I don’t seize this opportunity. “I’ve never driven a Camaro.” A tremor wracks my hand as I slide it over Sarah’s gun, then creep my fingers toward the fob, my gaze locked on her stall as she continues to whistle.

“With a car like that and the speeds it can reach, you can’t afford to second guess yourself. There’s no room to overthink. You have to trust your gut and hang on for the ride.”

She’s not talking about the car.

Not baiting me. She’s encouraging me .

I take a deep breath, pausing a beat to do as she asked—contemplate my future, consider all the eventualities. Then I drag the gun and fob from the vanity and backtrack toward the door.