Chapter 9
Decker
" W ell, fucking find a way!" I slam the phone down. Lift it. Slam it again. Slam it until my hand throbs and the cradle splits, then drop my head between my hands.
It's been almost forty-eight hours. Where is she? Is she okay? Did she eat? The questions are eating my brain from the inside.
I called in a few favors with some cops who come in here, trying to figure out who that slick fuck was. The one talking about killing May. Their lack of urgency isn't making it easy.
Part of me still doesn't believe it. Who could look at May and think about killing her? But I'm not taking a fucking chance. I have to know for sure.
"I want to be the best dancer they've ever had." Her voice loops in my head, all bright and sincere. Like she's never once had a person try to hurt her. Like she'd be impossible to kill.
The phone I gave her has a tracker in it. Okay, I lied. I don't give them to all my employees. I had this one in my pocket, and I gave it to her because I wasn't letting her out of my sight, even electronically.
I have a few special phones I give the girls if they're in trouble. Angry boyfriends. Pimps sometimes. Worse.
Over the years, I've taken on a paternal role with some of them, so I keep track of their movements if I think they're in danger.
I figured a long time ago I'd never have a family of my own.
After watching the shit my mom put up with staying with my dad, plus my own awkwardness around women, I threw myself into helping these girls. The family I was never going to have.
But I didn't think May was in danger when I handed it to her. I just needed to know where she was the second she walked out my door.
Only problem is, the phone was dead when I gave it to her. She hasn't charged it.
"Goddamn it." I slam my fists down on my desk just as the door opens, and Allister steps inside. I notice he’s careful as he does it. He probably doesn't know what to expect anymore.
"Boss." His face is gray. He's been up with me since the fire, working every angle to find my May so I can get her to safety.
I try to keep my tone level. Can't manage it. "What?"
He's been downtown, chatting up some of our friendly bureaucrats and judges. Owning a club puts you in a position where you come across certain information. The kind some husbands wouldn't want their wives to know about. Comes in handy when we need a favor.
"I found him." Allister drops into the chair in front of my desk.
"Victor Galletti. Son of Simon Galletti.
They own a couple Ferrari dealerships. Some other small-time real estate investments.
" He waves a dismissive hand. "But they've been managing the Morgan estate since the matriarch died in a car accident years ago.
That's where their real money comes from.
The Morgans had two daughters, and one of them is named Maribelle. "
Maribelle. May. My May.
My flesh crawls, and I want to skin that fucker alive. Slowly. With the dullest knife I own.
"You have an address?"
Allister nods.
"Let's go. Now."
I'm getting my girl.