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Fuck. I’m going to go on a killing spree. If anything happens to her…
“I told you it’s bad practice to have your sports cars in that garage. The exit is way too easy.” Dominic is quick to open my house’s security footage on his computer and rewinds the latest footage so that we can follow.
Well, fuck me. When I had the set-up installed, I didn’t have a wife who has a creative mind when it comes to escaping. Now I watch in fascinated horror how Tasha strolls out of the apartment, takes the elevator to my private garage, almost flirts her way to the car, past the guards in place. As if she owns it. Which she does. We haven’t spoken about much, but when I left this morning, I didn’t get the feeling that she was that impatient to get out of there. Something must have triggered this move on her side.
“Is she running?” Dominic asks. “Because if you want a team out?—”
“No, she isn’t running. There’s only one place where she’ll be going.”
“Home?”
“Yes.” To Peter Fucking Armstrong so he can poison her head. “You have a team at Armstrong’s house. Let them know they can let her in. Don’t let anything happen to her.”
“Done,” Dominic says as he unlocks his phone. “You want me to come with you?”
“No, this is going to be some housekeeping that I prefer to keep private.”
Dominic sucks through his teeth. “Oof, I hope she’s up to your discipline.”
“We’re well matched.” But fuck, if she does this again, shit’s going to get real.
I walk out of there, her electronics in my hand, sensing in my gut that Tasha has figured us all out.
She’ll never trust me again.
55
TASHA
It’s so weird to be behind a wheel again, and it takes me a good ten minutes to figure out the car. Now I know why Dad always insisted I learn how to drive stick shift cars. It’s highly strung and crazy fast, and definitely not the best car for my current state of mind. I’m jittery with having made it out of Matteo’s apartment, but I bet he has ten people on me already.
Not that I care. My fear has been wiped out by my need to know the truth. Plus, I haven’t been scared of Matteo for some time now and he would never hurt me. That doesn’t mean this move isn’t going to piss him off big time.
I drive through the city, finding comfort in being in this familiar place, even though part of me feels like a stranger with everything that’s come to light. When I eventually hit our exclusive suburb and the wall that surrounds our house, my heart is like a rock in my throat. Heavy, beating, ready to be vomited onto the pavement.
The gates open and I drive in, somewhat suspicious that it’s so easy. The new guard that opened the gate isn’t one I know, but for the rest, everything looks exactly the same. I park in front of the garage and for a moment clutch the steering wheel as if it’s a life buoy. The front door opens and when Dad steps out into the sunlight, I blink at the rush of tears. I can’t help it… whatever happened, he is still my dad.
I’m out of the car and run up to him, into his arms, and we’re both weeping.
“What did they do to you… what did they do to you, honey?” he sputters between tears. “My sweet child. I?—”
“I’m fine, I’m totally fine,” I try to reassure him, but I pull away to look into his eyes. “What have they done to you?”
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I’ve been under house arrest of sorts. It’s been torture not knowing where you are, or what… how? How did you get here?” he asks, his hands on my shoulders, squeezing to make sure I’m real. “Are you free?” He glances around, nervous.
I spot two bodyguards in my peripheral, guns in hand, ready to pull a trigger. “Best we talk inside.”
“They’ll listen in either way.” Dad is trembling, but we have each other by the hand and go inside the house. I swallow as I blink into the well-lit interior, so foreign now, and ignore the bodyguard who is by the front door, watching us.
“I don’t have a lot of time,” I say, wanting to get to the point. “How did we get here, Dad?”
He leads the way to his office, and as I walk inside, it’s clear it’s been stripped of all electronics. Dad’s been cut off from the rest of the world just like I have, and that right here at home.
“I don’t know where to start,” he says as he sinks into the leather sofa.
“Start with why you got into dealing with these people in the first place.” The mess surely started there. My knees cave and I sit too, although I have the urge to pace the room.
“Ah, honey, you’ll never understand?—”
