REBECCA
The office falls into controlled chaos. Phones ring. Men move. Rossi starts barking orders. Alessio is still staring at the frozen image of his mother on the screen. I don't think he's actually seeing it anymore. I know that look.
The look where your world just shifted beneath your feet, and your brain hasn't caught up yet. My chest hurts for him. Which is ridiculous. I have my own problems with the fact that Alessio's mother apparently helps auction women like livestock.
Jesus.
I look back toward the monitor. Toward the beautiful blonde woman with Alessio's eyes. A chill crawls down my spine. What kind of monster does that? What kind of mother? The answer comes immediately. The same kind that might know exactly what happened to Rachel.
My stomach twists. Because if she was involved... if she touched Rachel's life in any way... I don't know what I'll do.
A dangerous thought follows. One that immediately sends me into panic mode. How can I love a man whose—
I freeze. Love? Nope. Absolutely not. Not today. Not happening.
I shove the thought into a dark corner of my brain and lock the door. We're not unpacking that. Ever.
The office door bursts open. A tiny woman storms inside carrying three laptops, two phones, and enough cables to wire a small city. She nearly walks straight into a desk, but recovers brilliantly, keeps going. Nobody comments.
"Move." The order is directed at a six-foot-four soldier.
The giant immediately vacates a chair. The woman drops into it.
She can't be more than five-two. Maybe five-three if we're being generous.
Dark curls have escaped from a messy bun.
Large glasses slide down her nose every thirty seconds.
Her hoodie appears to have survived several wars.
One sleeve is stained with what might be coffee. Or blood. I'm not entirely sure.
A bright pink sticker on one laptop reads: I Paused My Game to Be Here.
I like her immediately.
She doesn't even look up. "Which idiot touched the servers?"
Rossi points toward a dead trafficker on a nearby evidence photo. "Him."
She doesn't look amused. Her fingers begin flying across a keyboard.
I blink. Alessio snorts. The tiny woman finally notices me, and her eyes flick up briefly to assess me.
"Valentina, this is Beccs," Alessio introduces us.
She barely spares a glance. "Cool."
And immediately goes back to typing. After a moment, the little hacker glances at him. "Give me an hour."
Alessio's voice is rough. "Can you find her?"
Valentina pushes her glasses higher up her nose. The corners of her mouth twitch. "I found a Russian billionaire's offshore accounts because he annoyed me on Reddit."
Her fingers continue dancing across the keys. "Finding one terrible mother should be considerably easier."
I go back to watching Alessio stare at the frozen image of his mother. Luciana Vitali. The woman who abandoned him. The woman who might know something about Rachel. The woman currently sitting at the top of my list of people I'd like to throw into traffic.
"Alessio?" I don't ask if he's okay, or how he's feeling. He knows that's what I'm really asking.
His eyes shift to me. I can practically see the lie forming. The one he'd tell Rossi. Or Massimo. Or anybody else. The standard mafia-man response. I'm fine. I've got it handled. Nothing bothers me.
But he changes his mind. His hand slides across the back of his neck. A rare tell. "No."
The honesty surprises me.
"I need to go back to the Reapers." His gaze returns to the screen. "I need to talk to my old man."
I agree. "Yeah." For once, I don't argue. "That might be a good idea."
His eyes return to me. Suspicious immediately. Apparently, I've become predictable. Unfortunately for him, he's right. I clear my throat. "So..."
His eyes narrow. "Don't."
"I haven't even said anything."
"Don't."
I smile. The smile he hates. The one that means I'm absolutely about to say something. "You're not going to like this."
"Then don't say it."
"I think I should go back to work."
Silence. Valentina pauses mid-typing. Rossi suddenly becomes very interested in a nearby wall. Alessio just stares. The way people stare at unexploded bombs.
"No."
I blink. "That's it?"
"No."
"They're starting to trust me," I argue.
"No."
"I give them beer."
"No."
"They like me."
"No."
I throw my hands up.
"There she is," Valentina mutters. "The girlfriend."
I ignore her. Mostly. Alessio doesn't. His glare could probably melt steel. Then he turns back to me. "Absolutely not."
I cross my arms. He crosses his. We stare at each other. Nobody else speaks. I turn back to Alessio. Tilt my head. Give him a moment. His expression changes. The same look I've learned usually precedes him surrendering to logic. Or committing homicide. Fifty-fifty.
His hand disappears into his hair. Pulls. Hard. "That's a terrible idea."
I shrug. "Give me a better one."
"I'll take my old man." I wait. "To my private casino."
I blink. I have no idea what that means. But judging by Rossi's expression, it's not good. "You have a private casino?"
Alessio looks annoyed. "That's not the point."
"No, actually, I think it is."
He pinches the bridge of his nose. "The point is I can get him alone."
Understanding dawns. "Oh."
Right. Mobster kidnapping. Fancy mobster kidnapping. Got it. I shake my head. "No."
Now it's his turn to blink. "No?"
"The Reapers are already losing their minds because the Mexican disappeared," I point out. Staring him down before I continue. "If your old man vanishes right now—"
"He won't vanish."
"He'll be at your secret mob casino."
"My private casino."
"Whatever."
His eye twitches. I continue anyway. "He'll still be missing."
I point toward the warehouse around us. "The timing is suspicious."
Rossi looks like I have him on my side.
"Even if he's a nobody." Alessio opens his mouth. I don't let him. "Even if he's at the very bottom of the biker food chain." Another twitch. "Even if they forget he exists half the time. If he disappears now, every arrow points directly at you."
Silence. His jaw works. I can practically see the gears turning. The problem with Alessio is that he's very smart. Which means eventually he arrives at the correct conclusion. Unfortunately. The correct conclusion is usually mine.
"Shit."
I smile. He begins pacing. Once. Twice. A third time. Then points at me. "I hate it when you're right."
The grin spreads automatically. "What can I say?" I shrug. "It's a gift."
His eyes narrow. Then, despite everything—the warehouse, his mother, Rachel. The trafficking operation. The impossible amount of shit currently raining down on us—a laugh escapes him. It's short and reluctant, but real.
Valentina suddenly straightens. "The woman you told me to look for a few days ago. Is that her?"
Automatically, my eyes fly to the screen Valentina is pointing at. Every muscle in my body locks. An image fills the screen. I gasp.
Rachel.
For a second, the world stops. She's older than in the photograph Alessio showed me. Not by much. Maybe a few months. Maybe a year. But it's her. Dark hair. Brown eyes. My sister. Alive. Or at least she had been when this picture was taken.
Beside me, Alessio shoots Valentina a murderous look. "Smooth, Val. Real smooth."
Valentina blinks. "What?"
"You might've wanted to ease into that."
"Oh."
She considers this. "Right." A pause. "I forgot humans do emotions."
Alessio closes his eyes. He rubs his forehead. Then looks at me. "I'm sorry."
The apology is genuine. Unexpectedly gentle. "Valentina has the social skills of a ransomware attack."
I'm barely hearing them. I can't stop staring at the screen. Rachel. My feet move before I realize it. Slowly. Like if I move too fast, she'll disappear. Again.
The photograph fills the monitor. Rachel is sitting on a chair beneath professional lighting. She's wearing a tight black dress that doesn't belong on a seventeen-year-old girl. Heavy makeup. Bright lipstick. High heels. The kind of outfit somebody else chose. Somebody trying to sell a fantasy.
The mascara beneath her eyes is smeared.
Her cheeks are blotchy. Her hands are clenched in her lap.
And her eyes... God. Her eyes, they're blown with terror.
It's breaking my heart right now. Into a thousand pieces.
She looks like she's trying not to fall apart.
So brave, even when faced with the unthinkable. I press a hand against my mouth.
For four years, I've imagined a thousand possibilities. Most of them horrible. None of them compare to actually seeing it. Seeing what they did to her.
Valentina's fingers dance across the keyboard.
A second window appears beside the photograph.
A transaction record. Cold. Clinical. So painfully ordinary that for a second my brain refuses to process it.
I stare. And stare. And stare. Trying to make sense of what I'm looking at.
Because this isn't a police report. It isn't a missing persons file.
It isn't evidence. It's a business transaction.
A receipt.
An invoice.
A record of a sale.
Like Rachel was a used car. A piece of furniture. A fucking toaster. My stomach twists violently.
No.
No.
No.
My eyes jump back to the photograph. To her face.
To the fear in her eyes. To the mascara smeared down her cheeks.
To the little crease between her brows she always got when she was scared.
God. That's Rachel. That's my baby sister.
The girl who used to crawl into my bed during thunderstorms. The girl who stole all my fries and then swore she hadn't touched them.
The girl who sang off-key so enthusiastically it should have been illegal. The girl I promised to protect.
The girl I failed.
My vision blurs. Five thousand dollars. The number burns itself into my brain. Five thousand dollars. That's what they decided she was worth.
After everything.
After our father.
After the blood.
After the funerals.
After the foster homes.
After all the nights we spent clinging to each other because we were all we had left.