Page 104 of Privilege

Diego skipped ahead of Renzo with his blue backpack jumping on his shoulders with every step. It was very possible that the kid was more excited about seeing Lucia than he was about the fact his brother had come to get him. Renzo wasn’t willing to admit that, though.

“Can I get pizza, too?” Diego asked over his shoulder.

Renzo chuckled, and nodded. “You sure can.”

Whatever this kid wanted, Renzo would give him. Or at the very least, try. It was the least he could do for Diego, considering everything else the kid had to deal with.

“Be careful with my bag, Ren,” Diego said as seriously as he could manage in his four-year-old squeaky voice. “I got the best car.”

Yeah, Renzo saw it.

In the box.

In a million little pieces.

That he would have to put together.

He didn’t mind, though. That model car would keep Diego occupied for days. And it gave Renzo the chance to spend quality time with his little brother, too.

Definitely worth it.

Renzo smiled. “I won’t break your new toys.”

“Good.”

“The door with the seven on it,” Renzo told Diego as he was coming up to the room in question. “Just go right in—Lucia’s in there waiting for you.”

Diego pumped a tiny fist in the air, let out a holler, and picked up his pace. Renzo would have jogged to catch up with his brother, but he figured the kid was fine. As he told Diego, the room was unlocked. Diego slipped inside, but left the door open.

“Lucia!”

“You don’t need to yell for her, it’s one damn room, Diego.”

“Lucia!”

Why was he yelling?

Kids were strange creatures.

Renzo figured out exactly why Diego had been yelling for Lucia when he entered the hotel room, and found it empty. Clean, with no popcorn on the floor like he’d left it. The bed made, not messed from the two of them rolling around in the sheets. He blinked, and took in the space again.

Her things were gone.

She was gone.

The bathroom door was left wide open.

Diego turned around to face Renzo with a frown. “Where’s Lucia?”

He would have answered his brother, but something on the bedside table caught his eye. He dropped the bags he was carrying, and crossed the room. Plucking the handwritten note up that looked like it had been scrawled on a writing pad, and ripped out, his rage blew out of control.

Eleven words.

Two sentences.

One signature.

That’s all the note was.