Chapter 10
Astor
“You okay?”Cillian asks.
I drop into the leather recliner as the jet lifts into the air.
He sinks into the seat next to me, loosening his tie. “I asked if you were okay.”
I don’t respond.
“You are not made of steel, Astor, no matter how hard you pretend to be. The only woman you’ve ever married, and the only woman you’ve had a child with, was just kidnapped and killed. You have to be feeling something.”
“I feel nothing.”
He gives me a pointed look. “You did this when your mom died, and when everything happened with Chloe. You don’t address death, and it’s going to eat you from the inside out.”
“My job is death. My entire life is death. Listen, Cillian. the bottom line is this—it’s done. Just like this conversation.”
I look away, swallow the knot in my throat, and close my eyes for a moment. My chest is tight, my hands clammy, and bones vibrating with adrenaline. I feel like I’m about to burst through my skin and rip apart everything in my path.
Grief is manageable. Yes, it’s a cold and callous way to look at the end of life, but for me, it is the only way. Guilt, however, is a hundred knives severing my internal organs all at once.
Breathe, Astor. Fucking breathe.
Cillian is updating me on the men we still have stationed on the Strip, but the words aren’t penetrating.
Breathe, motherfucker, breathe.
I focus on his voice and slowly bring myself back to center.
“... so now I need to know who the hell this Carlos Leone guy is.”
I wipe my palms on my slacks. Where to even begin?
Cillian glances back at the woman he gagged and tied to the seat in the back before takeoff. He sucks in a breath and sinks low into his seat.
“That’s the same look my mother used to give me before she’d whip me with a belt.”
I glance over my shoulder.
One diamond-studded heel is lying in the center of the aisle, the other dangling from a cherry-red toenail. Her mind-numbingly tight dress has ridden up her thighs, which, I’m sad to say, she’s remedied by squeezing shut.
My gaze slides up her soft, tanned legs to the little shadowed V between the dress and the crease of her thighs, and then to a trim waist and pair of perky, round breasts that make my dick twitch. To the long black hair that I want to fist, to the pair of red lips that make me want to chew off my own arm. To the cute button nose, and finally, to those hooded blue eyes that drew me in like a siren’s call.
The moment I saw this woman, I had to have her. Period. It was like finding something that I’d been desperately looking for my entire life but didn’t know I was looking for it. When our eyes met, one single word materialized in my head?—
Mine.
During the poker game, I couldn’t keep my attention off her. Here I am, her aura called to me. You’ve finally found me.
In the most inappropriate ways, and at the most inappropriate time, this stranger dominated me. It was both unnerving and incredibly intriguing—and sexy as hell. I can’t remember the last time someone distracted me to the point that they had an advantage over me. This made me want her even more.
Though now, I’m guessing the attraction is no longer mutual, because the blue eyes that once held such longing are now murderous. Cillian’s mother must have hated him.
I clear my throat and look away.
“Remind me again why you took her?” Cillian mutters.
“Because you’d be planning my funeral if I hadn’t.” I flatten my palms on my thighs to keep from fidgeting like I want to. “Also, she’s going to be my ticket to get Valerie’s body back.”
Cillian takes a moment to speak. Only he knows about the clandestine trip to the location of my mother’s plane crash, where I spent eight hours sifting through rubble in the pouring rain to find just one of my mother’s bones, so that I could give her a proper burial. Only Cillian knows that I sat outside the medical examiner’s office for eighteen hours straight, from the moment my daughter’s body arrived, until the moment she was released to us.
Cillian thinks I don’t address death. I do.
I bury it.
“How old do you think she is?” He takes another glance over his shoulder.
I shrug. Jesus, it’s hot in here.
“She barely looks eighteen. It makes me uncomfortable.”
I shift in my seat.
“Do you think she’s Carlos’s daughter?”
“Mistress, probably. Maybe wife.”
“My bet’s on his daughter. What’s her name?”
I shrug again.
Cillian gapes. “You don’t know the name of the girl you just kidnapped?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know we had kidnapping protocol. Anyway ...” I dismiss him with a wave of my hand. “Talk. She can’t hear us.”
He settles back. “I was asking about Carlos. Tell me everything. I know nothing about him. Start at the beginning.”
“Carlos and I go way back.”
“How far back?”
“High school.”
“No shit?”
“No shit. He’s always hated me—maybe I should say we’ve always hated each other. One of those ridiculous school-age rivalries.”
“How did the rivalry start?”
“I fucked his girlfriend.”
“That’ll do it.”
“Carlos and I both grew up the same way—dirt poor, in the slums of Brooklyn, with massive chips on our shoulders. The difference was that his grandparents had money. Carlos’s mom was an addict. Eventually, the grandparents adopted him and his brother, Antonio, and moved them to the Upper East Side. We went to separate colleges but would run into each other from time to time. When my mother was elected district attorney, she was responsible for getting his brother locked up for tax fraud. Antonio killed himself in prison. She received several death threats after that, but none were verified. I threatened Carlos.”
“So, this goes a lot deeper than sleeping with his high-school girlfriend.”
I nod. “Not long after that, Carlos’s grandparents died, and he turned his inheritance into a real estate empire, buying and flipping lots in Las Vegas, where he settled. I haven’t seen the bastard for years.”
“Here’s what I don’t get.” Cillian frowns. “The poker game was set up so that you could win Valerie back, right? But she killed herself before the game. So, why would he follow through with the game if she was already dead?”
“To mess with me. That’s Carlos. He’s a trivial little shit, a tit-for-tat kind of guy. I have no doubt he just wanted to see my face when he showed me her picture.”
“That’s messed up.” Cillian rubs his chin. “Why kidnap her in the first place?”
I look away.
Cillian leans forward. “Astor, what did you do?”
“You know how I’ve been dabbling in real estate lately?”
“Yeah . . .”
“Well, I had my eye on a lot in Vegas.”
“Let me guess, one of his lots?”
“Almost his. I paid a building inspector to, let’s just say, exaggerate the faults of the high-rise he was using as collateral to buy the lot. When the deal fell through, I swooped in, bought the property, and then had his high-rise shut down for code violations. He sold it for dirt cheap, then I immediately bought it from that buyer and bulldozed it down.” The corner of my mouth twitches. “Want to know what the building was named?”
“What?”
“The Antonio.”
“You are a coldhearted son of a bitch.”
“He shouldn’t have threatened my mom.”
“You’re a twelve-year-old, do you know that? A stinky, pimply, insolent child wrapped up in overpriced Christmas paper.”
I flick a piece of lint from my sleeve.
“Well, one thing I do know is that he’s going to want her back.” Cillian jerks his chin to the back of the fuselage. “She’s obviously valuable to Carlos, considering he let you go, so that you wouldn’t kill her.”
“Agreed. That surprised me too. Find out everything you can on her—do it now.”
“On it.” Cillian begins to stand, but I grab his arm.
“I meant research on your laptop. Don’t touch her. Give her a minute.”
He cocks a brow. Cillian doesn’t miss much.
I look away.
“She did have a purse on her,” he says, popping open the overhead storage. “I took it off of her before tying her up.”
As Cillian retrieves the black Chanel from the top rack, I’m vaguely aware of the grumbles of disapproval from the back. Curse words, though it’s hard to tell through the gag.
When I open the purse, my first thought is how women can fit so many things in such tiny little bags. I hand Cillian her wallet, then sift through the other items.
“Her name is Sabine Hart,” he says.
Sabine.
“She lives in Vegas, is an organ donor, and—holy shit—today is her birthday.”
This gets my attention.
Cillian chuckles. “Wow, what a terrible birthday.”
“How old is she?”
“Twenty-seven, today. Damn. I would have sworn she was younger than that.”
I inwardly cringe. I could be her father ... and why does this bother me so much?
He continues. “Credit card, credit card, debit, Starbucks card, spa card, and ...” He frowns. “Some loyalty card from a place called Titty Titty Bang Bang.”
I snatch the pink card and study it. Relief washes over me. She’s not a stripper ... but no less sexual. Interesting.
“It’s a sex-toy shop.” I toss it back.
Cillian wiggles his brows.
“Stop.”
He laughs. “Okay, what else you got in there?”
I begin filtering out the contents, pretending that we’re not going through her purse with the sick interest and excitement of a child opening a stocking on Christmas morning. No matter how large a man’s ego, a woman will always remain a mystery.
One tube of lip gloss: Candy Apple
One tube of cosmetic concealer
A toothbrush (but no toothpaste, which I find odd. Why have a brush without paste?)
A flosser (Used—gross.)
A tube of perfume named Revenge
A small bag of honey-roasted peanuts
One pack of cinnamon gum
A handful of old cinnamon gummies (the little red bear kind) clinging to the bottom. Stuck to those is a small, crumbled sticky note. The handwritten script is faded and barely legible. It reads: Money for lunch on the counter. You’ve got this. Love you. Signed, Mom. I slide this one into my pocket.
Next up, a tampon. I toss this to Cillian as if it were a ticking bomb. He scowls and swats it away like a gnat, sending it rolling down the aisle, landing next to her Louboutin. We don’t dare look back.
And finally, a smartphone, locked with a passcode, of course.
“Want me to go scan her face to unlock it?” Cillian asks.
“No. I told you to leave her alone.”
He stares at me.
I sniff.
“Well ...” Cillian clears his throat and refocuses on the driver’s license in his hand. “I’ve got a place to start my research.” He grabs his laptop. “I’ve got five hours. Plenty of time.”
“No, we’re not going back to New York. I’m not leaving this area until I get my wife’s body and then punish Carlos accordingly. I want you to figure out where he is, contact him, and tell him I’ll return Sabine as soon as he delivers Valerie’s body.”
“The address he sent the original email from has already been shut down, but I’ll find a contact. When do we kill him?”
“Let me figure that out.”
“Where are we going?”
“My little cabin in the woods.”
“You have a cabin? Where?”
“On the outskirts of Tahoe National Forest.”
“In Lake Tahoe?”
“North of it, but yes, around there.”
“A mansion in the woods, then. Good. I could use some fresh air.” He begins typing. “I’ll have something on her shortly. What are you going to do?”
I glance in the mirrored ceiling at the girl tied up in the back. “I’m going to have a drink.”