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By the time we make it to Brady's house, it's after seven in the morning, and the blood on my hands has dried and congealed. All I want to do is take a fucking shower and sleep for a week. Until we know where Guerrero is at, until I know that Mila is safe again, I can't sleep. I have to see this shit through.
I climb from the SUV, weary to my soul, and follow Brady to the front door.
His house is a split-level brownstone, comfortable and homey. I've spent so much time here over the years, it's damn near as familiar to me as my own. Unlike mine, though, Brady's house is filled with memories. Pictures of Carla and Andres are scattered all over the place. Andres's toys are strewn from one end of the living room to the other, making my chest ache. Even though his wife and kid are in Arizona visiting her parents, Brady's house is full of their presence in his life.
I want that for myself, so fucking badly it hurts.
"I'm getting a shower," Brady mutters, tossing his keys in a bowl by the door. Instead of heading down the hall, he makes a beeline for his phone on the kitchen table.
"Damn, Daddy's mad." He smirks, holding it up for me to see.
Nine missed calls from Finn.
"Oh fucking well," I mutter, grabbing mine to see that he's called me just as many times. Instead of calling him back right away, I scroll through my texts. Most are from informants, telling me they haven't heard anything. There are several from Finn that I ignore. There's also one from a number I don't recognize. I tap the screen to open it.
I love you, Roman. Please stay safe.
As soon as I see the words, that familiar warm feeling shoots through my chest, sending heat twisting through me. I quickly save the number under Mila's name and then have to fight myself to keep from calling her.
I'm such a fucking coward, but if I hear that sweet little voice, I'll go to her. I won't be able to stop myself. When it comes to her, I have no self-control. She eradicated it the first time I felt that gorgeous little body pressed against mine. Every beat of my heart belongs to her.
As Brady wanders off to shower, I call Finn. No point in delaying the inevitable.
"Where the fuck have you been?" he snarls as soon as he answers.
"Busy," I grunt, leaning back against the kitchen counter and closing my eyes.
"Jesus de Silva showed up in the emergency room thirty minutes ago with a broken jaw, two broken arms, and funny enough…a dislocated dick. Says two men in ski masks jumped him in an alley. Know anything about that?"
"Nope," I lie, knowing damn well he doesn't want to hear the real answer to that question. After the shit de Silva confessed to doing, he's lucky I didn't cut his fucking cock off and leave him to bleed out in the street.
"Didn't think so," Finn mutters.
"You might want to send LAPD by to talk to him about his involvement in a sexual assault four days ago over near Hyde Park," I say quietly. He's paying for this one. A broken dick isn't nearly enough. "The victim was a seventeen-year-old."
"Son of a bitch. You got her name?"
I give him her name.
A faint scratching comes down the line like he's writing down her name.
"The guns and drugs are in a storage facility near the airport, one of those rent-by-the-month places. Expect it to be heavily guarded before you go in," I warn Finn.
"You're sure?"
"Brady broke his hand getting the info."
"Jesus fucking Christ," Finn growls. "We'll hit it up."
I exhale a breath. Wherever Guerrero is, his world will be in pieces by the time he gets back. If I don't find him before then.
"You ever heard of a Selena Ortega?" Finn asks half a second later.
"Not that I can recall." I hit the speaker button on my phone and then set it on the counter to scrub de Silva's blood from my hands. The knuckles of my right hand are scraped and bruised beneath. "Why?"
"Her name came up. Not sure that it means anything, though."
"Then why'd you bring it up?" I dry my hands, frowning.
