We’re close. So close.
Maddox doesn’t utter a word as I slow down and pull into her drive—the gate is wide open. That makes me even more uneasy. When I climb out of the car and sprint toward her front door, he follows in silence. When I find it locked and go around the back, sighing when I don’t see her calmly swimming in the pond, he’s still on my heels.
I walk into her house, pausing for a few moments to listen, but it’s deathly quiet. The blood rushing through my veins is clouding my sanity. Instead of quietly observing to make sure I don’t miss something, I’m itching to rage and rush, turning this place over to find her. I shake my head, aggressively rubbing a hand over my jaw in an attempt to calm myself, then carry on through Scarlet’s home.
Maddox’s steps branch away from mine as he quietly understands what we’re doing here.
I don’t find her in the bathroom. Her bedroom is as empty as it was on the camera feed. And her kitchen lights are on, a half-eaten meal on the table, but no beautiful, brown-haired woman sitting there.
“Carter.”
I snap my head toward the urgent sound of my name and find Maddox in the office. A rushed glance into the dimly lit space doesn’t reveal much, only a slightly messy office, but I notice that some things were knocked over on her desk; the chair is slid a bit too far from it, and her screens are still on.
Maddox looks at me, a frown pulling tight at his brows, his scar looking so much more jagged and beastly in this light.
“Do you think it was Duval?” he asks.
I turn the lights on fully, stepping further into the room without answering, swiping my gaze in every nook like it could fucking speak to me. Something glints on the floor under the desk, a dark stain under it, and I pull a tissue from the box sitting on it, reaching over to grab it.
“Is that blood?” Maddox cocks his head at the pen I’m holding. Drops of crimson stain the white tissue.
It sure fucking is. And I don’t know if it’s hers or her attacker’s. I leave the offending item on the desk, and my gaze catches on the screen—bank accounts.
Is she still looking into Duval? Everyone was quite appreciative of her assistance. It brought us so many more steps closer to nailing the guy, and our plan is well and fully underway now. But she didn’t need to do anything else. She’s done enough. Certainly more than I did...to my utter surprise.
Scrolling up in one of the windows, the name makes me recoil—Camora. She’s looking into her ex. Cycling through the windows, I notice how empty his account is. I thought the Camoras were doing well for themselves, but as I look further into a joint account, an image starts to form. Connections grip each other like thin strings coiling together, matching transactions between accounts, sums adding up and routed around to confuse and deflect. But I see them. Plain as day. Bernard’s been stealing from his family and taking out the money in cash.
“Carter!”
I turn toward Maddox’s urgent tone, and his expression gives me instant hope as he hands over the small object he holds in his hand—a cufflink, with ripped shirt fabric still attached.
“Does that mean anything to you?”
Yes, it fucking does. Because it has a monogram on it. Two cursive letters wound together, forming two damning initials—BC.
“Bernard motherfucking Camora,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Her ex?”
I nod my response, slide the object into my waistcoat pocket, and walk out the door. Maddox follows with determined steps.
“Where are we heading?” he asks once we’re in the car.
“The Camoras.”
He nods and picks up his phone, thick fingers working over the touchscreen as I drive off. I swipe the car screen, picking Tina’s name from my team, and she answers in two rings.
“Are you home?” I shoot the question, interrupting her greeting.
“Yeah, is every—”
“I need you.”
“Go.”
“We talked about the Camora family, the loan sharks in Bonray. I need you to see if you can track Bernard Camora. Also look for the other brothers and tell me if they’re at their HQ. The address is in their file on our server. Text that to me.”
“Are you heading that way?” Tina asks.
