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I wrinkle my brows together, trying to figure out who she’s talking about while the doorbell continues to buzz. I can only assume she must be thinking of one of the women she met at dinner last night.
“Carlene?” I ask, questioning more than offering the confirmation she’s after.
“Yes.” She snaps and wags her finger in the air, “Carlene Monroe is hosting a fundraiser next month for some charity she sits on the board for and wants to sample my work.”
She can hardly contain her excitement and the wide smile on her face. “If she likes it, she might hire me. Can you believe it? My first paying customer. I need to call Collin and start baking.”
She bolts from the bed, fishing her cellphone from the purse on the floor and trotting toward the bathroom. She stops mid step, turning to face me, “Is that ok?”
“I’d rather keep you to myself, but it sounds like we both have things to do.” The damn doorbell buzzes again, “But tonight, you're mine.”
“Deal.” Callie scampers away toward the bathroom, tapping out a text on her phone. I climb off the bed, tugging on a pair of jeans as I make my way to the door.
It buzzes again and I yank the damn thing open, “What the fuck is it?”
Dixon is standing on the other side of the door. “I seriously need to explain how phones work.”
“This came for you.” He holds out a small box in his hand.
“Deliveries usually go through the mail room.” I grumble, annoyed that I’m standing here with him instead of being in the shower with Callie.
“Kayden Blake dropped it off. He said to hand it directly to you.”
This has my curiosity piqued. I take the box and carry it inside, “Are you coming in or are you going to stand in the hallway?”
Dixon steps in, closes the door behind him and follows me to the kitchen. I place the box on the table, slicing through the packing tape with the switchblade from my pocket. Inside I find a handwritten note.
This is how we get you out.
C.C.
Cal Carracci has hand delivered the answer to my problem. I retrieve the cellphone from the bottom of the box and power it on, using facial recognition to unlock it. How he was able to program it is beyond me but from what I’ve heard his brother-in-law, Nash, is savvy behind the keyboard.
A video clip is cued and ready to watch. It’s amateur footage from the hotel chapel. I cringe when the first of many gun shots ring out and bodies start falling. The camera filming the attempted massacre at my wedding falls to the floor and a partially skewed face comes into view behind a gun and scope.
Victor Pacelli.
One of Don Marco’s soldiers and the same man stalking Callie at the donut shop the very next day. I slam my fist on the table jouncing the cellphone across its surface. “I knew that son of a bitch was behind it.”
The video cuts out and then resumes. Only now there’s new footage spliced in. Victor tied to a chair screaming through the gag in his mouth.
“What do we have here? It’s been weeks and you idiots couldn’t find him. Suddenly Carracci’s men can?”
“That’s not fair, Boss. We’ve looked everywhere. Marco must have been hiding him.” Dixon pleads his case.
I’m too angry to listen to his reasoning, “Fair doesn’t mean jack shit when Callie’s life is threatened.”
The camera shifts to the right onto a pair of delicate legs with a butterfly tattoo on the ankle. Legs I recognize as recently being wrapped around my waist. The video pans up and confirms it. My former secretary, Stephanie Grayson is tied to another chair. Then the video ends.
“What the fuck?” I curse.
As soon as I close the video the phone clenched in my fist vibrates and a text message appears on the screen.
“Who is it?” Dixon questions.
I cut a sideways glare at him. “Fucking Santa Claus and he’s bearing gifts. Get the car and send Lanah up here, Callie is going out.”
***
