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And again, my gut instinct raises a red flag.
If there’s one thing I know about Mel, it’s that she would never consider her daughter a burden. She hasn’t once said anything along those lines. She is so loving and concerned about Gabby’s well-being.
Hell, she called me for help just at the thought of having to put Gabby up for adoption. She willingly relocated to New York to try and keep her safe. She agreed to live with me—she even married me—in the hopes of protecting Gabby.
So, why would she hand her over now?
It doesn’t add up.
And suddenly, I can’t tell what’s the truth and what’s not.
Definitely the part about Mel wanting to leave her daughter is a lie. Which makes me question whether she made up the fact that I’m Gabby’s father. Maybe she said it because she doesn’t believe I would take care of Gabby otherwise.
That feels like a deeper betrayal than all the other lies combined, all the times she’s played with my heart and manipulated me. Why would she lie about Gabby being my child?
The answer hits me like a ton of bricks.
And my eyes shift to the scuff marks on the wood floor. Suddenly, the air feels frigid, the silence far too intense.
Mel might be in trouble.
My heart pounds against my ribs as I think back on the empty hallway, the unlocked door. My first instincts were right—my men would never be so reckless.
But aside from the scratched floor—which could have happened any number of times in the past few days without my notice—nothing seems disturbed. And Lev said that everything was fine.
Still, my tingling sense of foreboding returns in full force.
Carefully folding Mel’s letter, I slip it into my back pocket and creep toward the guest bedroom door.
Quietly, I crack it open, letting just enough light filter into the room to confirm that Gabby is, in fact, sleeping soundly in her bed.
And Mel’s not with her.
Glad to see Gabby’s come to no harm, I ease the door closed and creep down the hall to my bedroom—just to confirm Mel’s not there either.
She’s gone.
“Blyat.” Pulling out my phone, this time I call Lev. Then Denka.
Just like when I called Mel earlier, the phone rings countless times before sending me to voicemail.
Neither of my men picks up.
Tension grips my chest, trapping the air in my lungs. Something’s terribly wrong.
Stealing out of my condo, I lock the door behind me to give Gabby a temporary layer of protection. Then I head toward the stairwell—where my men are sure to have patrolled during their perimeter checks.
Faint signs of a struggle appear near the bottom floor, scuff marks on the concrete before a skid mark heading toward the door. Lead drops in my stomach at the indication of a skirmish, and I follow the trail into the garage.
My eyes scan the underground space, and when I find the cameras meant to monitor the area, my heart sinks. They’re both destroyed completely.
Reaching behind me, I pull out the gun I tucked in the back of my slacks. Easing into a crouch, I slink forward cautiously, keeping my head on a swivel for any signs of my men.
Something dark catches my attention at the far corner of the enclosed space, and I creep toward it.
As I round the hood of a white Yukon Denali, my heart sinks.
Denka and Lev have both been stacked unceremoniously in the crowded space. Both sport ugly contusions that would indicate they put up a hell of a fight—and were beaten brutally. But the way they stare blindly into the distance tells me they’re gone. They both died a while ago.
