Page 291 of Romeo

Callum continued, “Webb lived one town over. Romeo found him. I know that because somewhere just before midnight he called Priest and asked for help cleaning up what was left.”

Cash leaned back and blew out a breath.

Gunner muttered something that sounded suspiciously approving.

I didn’t have enough attention to spare for either one of them.

“Priest helped him?” Reaper asked.

“Yeah. Then Priest showed up this morning expecting to find Romeo and Fiona at the clubhouse. Priest said he wouldn’t keep something involving Fi a secret, and Romeo asked him to give her one night before everybody descended on her. Priest agreed and told him to bring Fiona to the clubhouse first thing this morning.”

“And Romeo agreed?” Montana asked.

“No,” Montclair growled. “He said thank you.”

Despite everything, I closed my eyes.

Of fucking course he did.

Romeo never lied. He was disturbingly skilled at not actually answering questions he was asked.

Montclair apparently understood exactly what that meant now too, because his next words came through clenched teeth. “Priest thought the Cajun asshole was agreeing. He wasn’t. Martha woke up this morning, found them both gone, and a fucking note saying Fiona was safe and with Romeo.”

“He fucking took her,” I muttered.

“No shit.”

Carly’s voice broke through before Montclair and I started fighting over who had the greater cause to kill one of my men. “Callum, there’s something you need to know.”

“What?”

I looked at the phone.

There was no good way to make the next part better.

“Fiona is Kaitlyn Grace Ward,” Carly told him.

Nothing came through the speaker.

No breathing.

No movement.

Nothing.

Then Callum Montclair lost his fucking mind.

“WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN, FIONA IS A WARD?”

Everything went to hell at once. Reaper started swearing. Montana tried talking over Montclair, which was about as useful as yelling into a tornado, and Fury was telling Carly to back away from the phone before someone ruptured her goddamn eardrum. Cash dropped his head into his hands, laughing without sound because apparently watching four presidents collectively lose their fucking shit was the highlight of his week.

I slammed my palm against the table. “Everybody, shut the fuck up!”

Shockingly, it worked.

Mostly.

Montana was still muttering something about needing a drink.