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Normally, I’m up way before that. I have my workout session, my breakfast, then I go and wait for Quinn to wake up, watching her from her balcony. I love those first few moments when she realizes that consciousness creeped its way into her good night’s sleep. She always frowns like she is mad at the world for interrupting her. She is not a morning person. That’s okay. She doesn’t need to be. I’m here to protect her all hours of the day.
Other than today.
Truth is, I’m too ashamed and embarrassed to face her. And scared of what I did to her and if it could happen again. I know she knows when I’m around, so I don’t want to chance her talking to me about it or at all.
It takes me until noon to come to my senses and go check on her. Tonight, I need to go with Graham to an Italian restaurant in SoHo and retaliate on the Lucky Lucianos. Until then, I can watch her. Make sure she’s okay after last night.
I jog the way to her house with my hands shoved deep into the pockets of my pea coat. I don’t know why Americans always complain about it being cold in Europe. New York is pretty fecking freezing in the winter.
Something is wrong. I feel it as I climb up her balcony, swiftly, as I am used to it. I use my key for her flat only when she’s asleep. When she’s awake, I watch from afar.
But the light is turned off. Quinn should be up by now. And the little, loud dog is pawing at the glass window of the balcony, barking at me to open it for her. There’s a pool of yellow beside her. She wasn’t taken out this morning.
Why?
I don’t even think about my next move. It’s an impulse. I push the window open—it’s pretty big—and bend down, sliding through it and into her apartment. I walk straight to her tiny bedroom. Empty. I throw the bathroom door open without a warning. Nothing. I pace to the kitchen—the place is so small I remember every square foot by heart—and sure enough, there’s no one here. Worry gnaws at my gut, and I feel my head swirling. She left? Maybe she’d finally realized that I’m a fuck up and decided to leave. But that doesn’t make any sense. She’d take the dog with her. She’s crazy about this little rat, despite their tumultuous relationship.
I l
ink my fingers behind my head and pace back and forth in the small space of her apartment—eight steps forward, eight steps back—hating myself for every moment that I’m here and not out searching for her. But where would I look? I never tracked her phone like Cole and Graham did to their wives, but I’m kicking myself for it now.
Reluctantly, I take out my cell phone and call Jade, Cole’s wife. She answers on the second ring.
“Carter?” She sounds surprised. I would be, too. I’ve never called her in my entire life. The only reason I have her phone number is because she keeps texting me about social functions, badgering me to join the Savages every time they go out for dinner and drinks. She’s a nester, this one.
“Do you know where Quinn is?” I’m too riled up for small talk.
She mulls this over, offering a half-arsed “hmmmm”.
“My best bet is at home or at the club helping out with something.”
I tsk with my tongue. “Neither. Her dog was sitting in a puddle of piss when I got here, and she’s nowhere to be found.”
She’s not at the club because we have new soldiers working there twenty-four seven, and all of them have specific instructions to inform me as soon as she walks into the place. I never got a text about it. Of course, I leave that part out to Jade.
“I don’t know, Carter, but now you have me worried. I’ll call Cole.”
I should say no, but I hear myself choking out a “thank you”. I won’t let my pride get in the way of Quinn’s safety. I’ll take all the help I can get.
“I’ll call Graham,” I add.
“You do that.”
We both hang up.
I stare at my phone, debating my next move, when it vibrates with a text from Quinn. An address in Long Island. She doesn’t give me any instructions, just “please hurry” underneath. My gut churns. I should be relieved, knowing she’s well enough to send a text, but instead, all I feel is fear. It’s not a feeling I’m accustomed to.
I’m on my way.
“You should know, I’ve been doing this for a while now,” I tell Murray when he gets out of the bathroom. Murray owns a small delivery company and has a couple of trucks and a few employees. He is not a mobster. And he is not that smart. He never checked me for a phone, and the second he left me locked in his house by myself, taking the key and disappearing into his bathroom, I texted Carter and deleted the message. I know Carter will come for me. I just hope he arrives before Murray does anything to me.
“Doing what?” Murray takes even steps in my direction. This place is a pigsty. So fucking cluttered and dirty. Stained underwear adorns most of the cheap, old furniture and the peeling wallpaper suggests the place was deserted a long time ago. But it wasn’t. Murray lives here. He just doesn’t give a damn.
He stops about a foot away from me, eyeing me curiously.
“Selling myself.” I swallow my shame as I let the lie drop from between my lips. “My last client didn’t use protection. That’s why I got out so early today. I may be on the pill”—Another lie. I lick my lips, this time to wet my dry flesh—“but I want to stay on the safe side. One thing is for sure, he is a dodgy man, so you might catch something if you don’t have a condom.”
Murray’s brown, muddy eyes darken. I wouldn’t classify him as a good-looking man, though some might if they didn’t know what kind of monster he was. Hell, I wouldn’t even classify him as a man. What kind of man buys a woman and imprisons her?
