Page 51 of The Voicemail

Maya Reed pulls up to my building in an old beat-up silver sedan. There’s a dent over the back wheel and a scrape on the driver’s side door. I watch through the security cameras as she walks into the lobby, fuming, and marches up to the front desk guard. I send him a message: Let her in.

She’s wearing light scrubs under a black coat with her hair pulled into a bun. She looks tired and irritated, and I have to imagine a good portion of that is aimed at me.

The guard says something to her that I can’t hear through the feed, but I can read her face well enough to know it isn’t going well for her. She leans over the desk, points toward the elevators, and starts talking with her hands.

Then the elevator opens and Marco steps out, waving her in after him. She throws up her hands before she steps on. Whatever small amusement I felt drains away as the truth settles in. Elena is leaving. She called her best friend to come get her, and she’s going through with it.

I go to the living room and wait for her to come through the elevator. She steps out before the doors fully open and scans the room. When she sees me, she stops short and glares.

“Where’s Elena?” she asks with acid in her voice.

“I’ll show you to her,” I say carefully.

“No, the hell you won’t,” she spits at me. “Point me in her direction, I can find her myself. She wants nothing to do with you.”

I nod and point toward Elena’s room. “It’s the last door on the left,” I say.

She brushes past me and walks straight to Elena’s room without another word. I make myself scarce. She’s probably right. Elena probably wants nothing to do with me now. I can accept that. I think. That doesn’t mean I’m leaving her to her own devices, though. I go back to my office and pull up the penthouse security feed.

It takes them less than five minutes to come out of Elena’s room. Maya walks out first with her jaw tight, and one hand wrapped around the handle of Elena’s suitcase. Elena follows behind her, carrying two tote bags and wearing an oversized sweatshirt that swallows her frame. Her hair is tied back, but pieces have fallen loose around her face. She looks exhausted. She also looks like she’s holding herself together by sheer force. I lean closer to the monitor before I can stop myself.

Maya says something to her when they reach the elevator. Elena shakes her head and shifts one of the totes on her shoulder. Every line of her says she’s defeated.

I keep expecting them to come back for more of her things, but instead I watch on the feed as they load her bags into Maya’s car and get in. I wonder if Elena will return for the rest, or if she’ll just expect me to send them to her. Those are questions I’ll have to ask her when she’s calmed down. If she ever speaks to me again, that is.

I pull out my phone and dial Nico. Luca’s already busy hunting for that file, so I need someone else I trust to make sure Elena gets to Maya’s safely.

“Hey, cuz,” he answers casually. “What’s going on?”

“I need a favor,” I say sharply.

Elena pulls away from the curb in that god-awful excuse for a car, and I watch one of my SUVs tail them. With any luck, she won’t notice. I’m sure it’ll only enrage her more, but I can’t risk her getting hurt. There’s no way I’m leaving her helpless and unprotected while Tomaso Greco is still at large.

Nico texts me five minutes later that he’s en route to Maya’s apartment. He was already near the Brooklyn Bridge, so he’ll probably beat them there.

Luca knocks on my door a few minutes later.

“What did you find?” I ask him sharply.

“Not a thing,” he answers, disappointed. “Just date books and work schedules. Personal journals, things like that.”

“I told you not to read anything personal,” I remind him tightly.

“I didn’t,” he swears, holding up his hands in defense. “I just combed through things to make sure I didn’t miss anything. We were thorough, Alex. Whatever she may or may not have taken is not in that room.”

I groan and hurl the nearest object on my desk against the wall. Unfortunately, it’s my favorite paperweight, a gift from my father. Luca flinches as it sails a few inches to the right of his head. Thankfully, it doesn’t break, but the wall now has a large dent in it.

“You didn’t have to let her go,” he says pointedly.

“Yes, I did,” I say through a long breath. “I broke her trust.”

“You didn’t have to do that either.”

“It was your idea, asshole,” I remind him.

He shrugs. “But you didn’t have to do it.”

I drop my head into my hands.