Chapter Forty-One
Stefano
TORIN GARZA SAUNTERS INTO the room and takes in the sight of my bruised and battered ass propped up against the headboard.
“Well, shit. Now I know THE O’s behind this,” I mutter.
“No idea what you’re on about.” He stops at the dresser and leans back, one leg crossed over the other.
“Was down in Monaco and ran into your boy Bratton. He told me you were laid up here after getting your ass kicked. Didn’t believe him.
Had to come see for myself. Knew you’d get your ass handed to you one of these days, you arrogant little shit. ”
“With relatives like you, who needs enemies?” I say. “Just waiting on my downfall, huh?”
“Dramatic as always. Fucking crybaby.” He crosses his arms. “Lemme guess, you’re here chasing another ‘lead’ on that girl who played you.”
“None of your damn business.”
It’s been a few days since I got jumped.
Angeline brought in a private medical team for me, and I’ve been stuck in bed ever since.
A couple fractured ribs, sprained joints, mild concussion.
Most of the swelling’s gone down, cuts are starting to close, but I’m still purple in more places than not and need a lot of fucking painkillers.
For the most part, I’m fine, just not fully functional. Another couple weeks, according to the medical team, and I’ll be right as rain.
If it were up to me, I’d haul myself into a damn wheelchair and roll to that clock tower myself. But Angeline’s got everyone treating me like I’m seconds from making a break for it.
“On a serious note,” Torin says, “how the hell did you manage to come all the way here and get jumped?”
“That’s the game we’re playing?” I raise a brow. “You’re gonna pretend you don’t know? When your right-hand man showed up in Vegas to tell me face-to-face to stop searching for her?”
“I was in black-out mode on an op in Germany for the last two months. Just wrapped up a few days ago.” He shrugs. “Like I said, I’m here because Bratton told me you’re here.”
“I’m finding it hard to believe Guy didn’t fill you in.”
“You think him being my right-hand means we sit around gossiping like a bunch of bitches?” He snorts. “Part of his job is filtering the irrelevant shit to keep me focused. If he doesn’t think it’s critical, he doesn’t bring it to me.”
“Fuck you I’m ‘irrelevant,’” I return. “You should know what’s going on with me. You’re my handler for The O. I’m your responsibility.”
He scoffs at that. “You might’ve noticed, but I stopped trying to keep your ass in line a long time ago. I figured if you fuck up, you fuck up, and they smoke you. Good riddance.”
Pain ricochets through my ribs from the laugh that rattles out of me.
Torin shakes his head. “Look, I flew here the second I heard about the attack. If The O didn’t step in to protect you, there’s gotta be a reason.
And since you’re on foreign soil alone..
.” He shrugs. “I’ll stick around until you recover.
But keep giving me shit and I’ll hop right back on that jet and go home to my wife, who I’m desperate to see after being away for over two months. ”
Torin Garza is a mid-level agent of The O. A kingmaker. Owner of Red Cage. He’s also my blood relative. But I don’t see him often since he’s always off somewhere deep in an undercover op.
Him checking in on me purely out of concern is...new. He’s a cold, aloof, no-fucks-given asshole. Most times we find ourselves face to face, it’s either because I need a favor or he’s delivering some dire warning from The O.
If his presence here is sincere, it means more to me than when he handed me the keys to Vegas. Because the level of respect I hold for this detached motherfucker is... “Thanks for coming.”
He lifts a brow. “Was that so hard?”
I laugh, wincing as pain stabs through my ribs. “Fuck you.”
“Got any photos of the woman who did the impossible and brought the King of Vegas to his knees?”
“I’m never gonna live that down, am I?”
He laughs. “Not a chance.”
“Thought you didn’t ‘gossip like bitches,’” I grumble.
“Ain’t gossip if everyone and their granny knows. It’s more of a hot topic at this point.” His shoulders shake with silent laughter. “Trent and True’s been having a field day with it.”
“They’re ones to talk.” I grab my phone from the nightstand. “I had Trent by the balls when he was pussy-whipped by Lexi. And True came running to me like a crybaby when London left his ass. Hypocrites.” I swipe to my gallery and pull up a photo of Soraya. “Here.”
Torin straightens from the dresser and walks over to the bed, taking the phone. The subtle jump of his brows doesn’t go unnoticed before he flicks his eyes to me, then quickly back to the screen.
“You know her?” I press.
“No, uh...” He clears his throat. “She just seems...familiar.”
“Thought the same thing the first time I saw her.”
He hands the phone back.
Eying him closely, I push, “What do you know, Tor?”
“I don’t know anything.” He moves to the armchair near the bed. “And I’d like to continue not knowing anything.”
Lie. But this is Torin Garza—ex-military, MI6-trained, commando, a favored agent of The O. There’s no forcing anything out of him.
Maybe if I ask nicely... “Give me something, Tor. This once.”
He rubs his jaw. “What kind of lead do you have?”
“The kind she left for me to find.”
“Hmm.” He nods. “Explains why you got your ass kicked. You’re too close.”
I snap my fingers. “That’s what I figured.”
“It might also mean she broke some rule or code giving you that lead...”
“Shit, you think she might be in trouble?”
“Look...” He sits back and props his ankle on his knee. “If I thought you’d listen, I’d tell you to pack it up and go home. But you’re clearly gone for this girl. And love makes us brave enough to do dumb shit. So all I’ll say is...” He levels his moss-green gaze at me. “Be careful. And good luck.”
~
TORIN STUCK AROUND for a few days until Bratton got back from Monaco. Within another week, I was functional again. Not completely healed, but enough to get back to finding my girl.
This time, I play it smart. Instead of heading straight for Zytglogge, I kill a few more days just doing regular shit—lunches at cafés, drinks at pubs, museum visits, dinners with the Bachmanns, trips to strip clubs...
It’s a long shot, but the goal is to stay unpredictable, throw them off. Appear as if I’ve given up and I’m just enjoying my visit. If Soraya did break some code or rule by leaving me clues, I don’t want to tip off whoever’s watching.
“Where to today, Mr. Castello?” Lars asks as I settle into the Maybach on a random Wednesday.
“Zytglogge.”
Fifty-two minutes later, I’m standing on a cobblestone street looking up at the golden sun and moon hands of the famed clock tower.
3:07 PM.
Tourist traffic is thick, hundreds of picture-snapping visitors milling around, loud and distracted. Makes it easy to blend in.
I avoid going near the tower and instead roam around to scope out the area. Meander from store to store, buy random shit then gift them to passing strangers. Pick up a nice Rolex, just because.
A delicate gold necklace with an emerald pendant catches my eye. It reminds me of Soraya. I buy it without a second thought, knowing she’ll probably hate it, since she seems to be allergic to anything delicately feminine.
At 4:20 PM, I settle under one of the concrete arches, half-hidden by a souvenir stall. From here, I’ve got an oblique view of the tower, partially obstructed every so often by the red trams picking up and dropping off passengers.
Shoulder propped lazily against the column, I scroll idly on my phone while a group of loud-as-fuck Brit girls behind me gossip about their friend Lily being a “wet blanket, knock-kneed hag with her annoying weak bladder.”
Poor girl needs better friends. Justice for knock-kneed Lily and her bladder.
At 4:43 PM, I tap on the camera icon and raise my phone toward the clock, playing tourist like the dozens around me snapping away.
At 4:44 PM, she appears. In the frame of my 6.7-inch screen. Standing beneath the arch below the clock tower. Staring straight at me.
Fuck. Seeing her again after all this time is like getting hit with a defibrillator. For the first time in months, I can feel my heart. And it’s thumping everywhere—in my temples, throat, fingertips, knees, chest...
All the noise, chatter, engines, horns, camera shutters…it all fades into silence. It’s just us. Staring at each other across the way.
As if to confirm it’s really her, she pushes back her black hoodie, revealing that maddeningly beautiful face. That long, elegant neck. Those fierce, secretive eyes...
Slowly, I lower my phone. And in that exact second, heart hammering, frozen to the spot, I know…
I’m in love with her.
Not sure when the hell it happened, but fuck…I am in love with this girl. This thorn in my side. This liar. This curse. This walking complication. I’m fucking in love with—
She moves first. And that snaps me out of it.
Eyes locked on her, I take off weaving through the crowd, ignoring the curses and dirty looks every time I bump someone or step on a toe. I won’t lose her again.
But she’s moving toward me, not away, cutting through the crowd with ease. She’s not frantic like I am. Not reckless. She’s calm. Controlled.
We’re so close, but still so far away. Why the hell did I pick a spot so damn far?
Just a few more feet…
But then, she stops. Looks left. Her face twists into something between fear and fury as she shakes her head and mouths, “No.”
Confused, I look to the left, scanning, but notice nothing alarming or threatening.
By the time I swing my attention back to her, she’s lunging forward. But right at that moment, a red tram slices between us.
The damn thing takes forever to pass.
When it finally clears...she’s gone.
No, no, no, no... Fuck!
Scanning wildly, I spin in place. “RAYA!”
Gone. She’s fucking gone.
Out of nowhere, a van screeches up and doors fly open. Two men rush out, grab me and wrestle me inside.
It all happens so fast. Splitting seconds. I don’t even have a chance to—
Something’s slammed over my nose and mouth and…
Darkness.