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Twenty minutes later, I have a call back and a Reg Number.
“Keys are resting on the front left tyre. Level 2. Grey BMW X5. What happened?”
“Had a run-in with a Russian and decided to cut my losses.”
“Did he recognise you?”
“Couldn’t tell. I ditched him anyhow.”
“Call me if you need anything else. I’ll message you as soon as there’s movement with Ada… And Frankie—”
“Don’t,” I say sharply.I don’t want sympathy. I just want her.“I’ll speak to you around midday, if not before.”
Hanging up, I jog down a couple of levels to find the car. Pulling out of the NCP, I set a course for Encore and a pink-haired wildlife expert who has some serious explaining to do, but I find myself taking the A4 to Richmond instead.
Parking up outside an old townhouse on the Green, I kill the engine, and let the stillness in. My walls are a fortress now, buttressed with spikes. My pain and grief are interchangeable. It’s all red and haemorrhaging.
I see a ghost of myself on the top step of the house, flicking a jealous finger at Matteo as he and my father leave for the night, before I’m losing the battle with my self-restraint and racing down to join them. Matteo’s arguing with our father now to let me tag along, as Antonio, my father’s double-crossing underboss, stands silently on the pavement. I sense my father’s reluctance, trapped between giving me a taste of a life that’s inevitable and one last shot of innocence.
My grip tightens around the steering wheel as my breathing shallows. No good comes from reliving the past, but how the fuck am I supposed to move forward when the man who shaped it is still walking this earth?
“Four days,” I mutter, my words harsh and raw. “Four fucking days, and then you’re mine O’Sullivan.”
Finally.
Glancing at my watch again, I’m surprised to find it’s late afternoon already.
Where’s my lunchtime call, Silas?
I check my phone. There are no messages, either. No updates about Ada.
Dialling his number, I frown when it rings out. When I try again, I leave a terse message for him to call me back immediately.
I’m chucking the device onto the dash when it bursts into life.
Withheld Number.
“Silas, where the f—”
“It’s not your surveillance team,” snaps a voice, more ice than Texan sunshine today.
“Are you planning on giving me the tough treatment, Grayson?” I drawl, assuming this is about last night.
“Did you take her?”
I pause, caught off-guard. “Take who?”
“O’Sullivan’s wife.”
“Why the hell would I take O’Sullivan’s wife?” But at the same time there’s a hazard warning going off in my head.
“She tried to slit her wrists three days ago. Her body was giving up. There was nothing more they could, so she was being moved to another ward to die peacefully when she vanished into thin air. There are Red Compass men crawling all over the hospital.”
“Then tell the NHS to call in fucking pest control. At least that explains the trigger-happy greeting I received earlier.”
The line goes dead for a second. “So, you knew she was there?”
“Yes, I knew she was there. Ada got a message to me to check on her discreetly. That’s all.Check, not steal. So, you can take that accusatory finger of yours and shove it up your arse.”
