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“She’s not inside,” Curse says. “She had to have come this way.”
“Not alone,” I rasp, my throat raw from the explosion.
“Who do you think would take her?”
“Who do you fucking think?” I shout, whirling on him. My hand flies to my temple, like I think my brains might start oozing out at any moment. “Fucking Darragh! He loves blowing shit up. He reneged on our deal and now he has her.”
Enzo’s out here now, and Robbie, jogging over the snow to Curse and me.
“You,” I snarl at Enzo, my hand seizing on his tie. “How the fuck did this happen? My goddamn head of security! Tell me why I shouldn’t put a bullet in your head right fucking now!”
“I’m sorry, Boss,” Enzo says gravely. “It looks like it happened after our last sweep. Apparently one of the hotel staff was given a wrapped gift box and was told it was for the ceremony. She was told that it was from the father of the bride.”
My brain halts its frantic spinning.
“The father of the bride?” I echo. At that moment, Curse looks down at his phone and frowns.
“The name Charles Brigham mean anything to you?” my brother asks.
“No. Fuck! Why are you asking me this pointless shit? My wife is fucking out there somewhere!”
Now I’m not so sure it was Darragh, and that’s even more terrifying than him having her, because that means I don’t have a single fucking lead.
Father of the bride…
What the fuck is going on?
“It’s just a hunch,” Curse says, “But one of my contacts just told me a private flight is taking off right now, and that it was chartered by someone named Charles Brigham. Its destination is Bermuda.”
Bermuda.
Father of the bride.
Charles Brigham...
Charlie.
The name on that letter to O’Malley, all those years ago.
The man who very likely was responsible for her mamma’s death.
And now, he has her.
“She’s on that plane.” As the words come spilling from my mouth, I know they’re true. “My wife is on that fucking plane to Bermuda.”
“Then I guess we’d better get on ours,” Curse replies.
Things happen real quick after that, though everything feels maddeningly fucking slow. Every moment the four of us spend in the car and then getting into our private on-call jet is another moment that my Songbird flies further and further away from me. Our jet is faster than a normal plane, so we make good time to Bermuda, but I spend the entire flight feeling like I want to crawl out of my own skin.
“Who the fuck do we know in Bermuda these days?” I ask Curse tightly as Enzo and Robbie prepare round after round of ammunition.
“Caruso is my main contact,” Curse replies. “He retired there about eight years ago.”
Cat-Foot Caruso. I remember him. A skinny, wily capo of my uncle’s who once got thrown off a balcony but somehow managed to land on his feet. He broke both ankles in the process, but it was better than his spine, and it earned him a nickname that’s been stuck to him for more than twenty years now.
“Get him on the phone,” I hiss savagely. “Make sure that whatever we need, he has it fucking ready for us.”
Curse gets Caruso on the phone, tells him what went down at the wedding, then mentions the name Charles Brigham.
