Page 28 of The Mobster’s Secret

Biting back my anger, I narrow my eyes at him. “Start talking.”

“Her friend, Greta, called me,” he replies. “She said Willow texted her asking for a ride, but when Greta texted back, she couldn’t reach her. She tried calling, but her phone is off.”

“Christ,” I mutter, rubbing my eyes with my palm. “Goddamn it.”

I don’t even have to think about it twice to know what’s happened: Vincent has her. Willow sneaked out somehow, and once she was off the grounds, he kidnapped her.

But how did she get out of the house?

The last time I saw her, she was up in her room ‘organizing’ her clothes. I knew she was lying to me, but I didn’t think there was any chance of her actually getting off the grounds.

“Tell the men to get ready for war.”

Brian nods. “Sir.”

Christ, I can barely keep it together.

The woman of my dreams has run off on me. And it’s all my fault. And every second that ticks by, she’s in more and more danger. This isn’t just about my future. It’s about her safety. If anything happens to her, I’ll never forgive myself.

I feel like there’s a bomb ticking in my chest and quickly go to the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water with lots of ice. I need to cool down before I explode. The staff sees the state I’m in and wisely all vacate the room. All but Marge.

She looks at me from the fridge, and it only takes an instant for it to hit me.

“You helped her get out.”

I’ve known Marge for too long. She can’t hide anything from me. And the expression on her face now says it all.

“Yes.” She nods.

There’s a stack of expensive china on the counter beside me. With a whip of my arm, I send it crashing to the floor.

“Why!?” I shout, my voice echoing off the walls. “Why would you do that!?”

Marge stands strong and looks back at me without fear. If she was anyone else, she’d be dead.

“You know why, Ivan,” she replies. “Did you really think you could keep a girl like that cooped up with no freedom?”

My face is hot and my jaw is clenched so tightly I can feel my teeth on the verge of cracking. But it’s not Marge I’m angry at—it’s me.

She’s right.

I let this happen. I drove Willow to this. If anything happens to her, it’s on me.

I’m on the verge of tearing the kitchen to pieces when Tom rushes in behind me and whispers in my ear, “Vincent Messina is on the phone… He’s got her. He has Willow.”

My chest goes tense, and I close my eyes as Tom passes me the phone.

Control your breathing. Don’t lose control. This is just another problem and it’s one that I can solve. One that I will solve. Because Willow is my treasure. My future. And if it means putting my life on the line to get her back, then I’ll gladly do it a thousand times over.

Raising the phone to my ear, I try not to picture Vincent sitting in his chair, all pleased with himself, feet propped up on his desk, thinking he has power over me.

Little does he know I’m going to rain down hellfire on him.

“Yes?” I say calmly.

“I see you’ve got time to talk to me now, Ivan.” I can hear the cocky smile on his face, the cigar as he puffs it, thinking he’s the new king of New York.

“Tell me what you want, Vincent.”