“We can track her car,” he reassures me. All our vehicles have location devices.
Except when the answers come, they are neither good nor useful.
My heart pounds as I watch the security footage. There she is, my Emylyah, simply walking out the front gate in the middle of the night with nothing more than a small bag slung over her shoulder. No vehicle. No bodyguard. No way to track her.
The soldier on the gate, whose job has always been to protect her, looks at her like she’s filth, slamming the gate behind her as soon as she crosses the threshold. I want to throttle him. Slowly. While I stare into his terrified eyes.
I shove the fury aside so I can concentrate on the necessary details.
The time stamp shows she left barely thirty minutes after our altercation. Stopping only long enough to take a few essentials. She can’t even have enough clothes for more than a couple of days. Two days have already passed. She could be anywhere by now.
"Track her phone," I snap at Darian. “Find out where she is.”
"Already did that. It's off, boss," he says grimly. "But there has been some activity on her credit cards. She withdrew a decent amount of cash, but I’ve set up an alert in case any of them are used again."
I slam my fist on the desk, causing the monitor to wobble precariously. "How the fuck did this happen? She was supposed to be protected!"
Darian remains annoyingly calm, making me want to punch him, too. What the fuck is wrong with me? I’m known for my icy displeasure, not red-hot rage.
"You told her to get out, remember? The men were just following orders."
I glare at him, but deep down I know he's right. This is my fault. Normally sangfroid, I let my unusual temper get the best of me, and now Emylyah is out there alone and vulnerable. Pregnant with my child.
"We need to find her," I growl, pacing the room like a caged animal. "Now."
Darian nods, already tapping away at his laptop. "I'm monitoring all her accounts, social media, everything. If she pops up anywhere, we'll know."
“I’m going to the West Village,” I announce, needing to do something. To act, instead of just standing here trying to pace out my frustration, which is not helping one little bit. And I’m too short of men to go around punishing them for allowing Lyah to leave, even if I did tell her to get out. I just wanted her out of my sight while I got my anger under control. I never meant for her to leave the safety of the compound.
Objectivity is not a strong point for me right now, even if I don’t want to examine the reasons. I keep telling myself it’s because she can be used to get to me. Because she’s carrying my son. But deep down, in a corner I don’t want to acknowledge, I know it’s more than that.
Still, now my mind is less clouded by emotion, the logical place to find her is with Roisin. I should have thought of that sooner. Would have if the rage hadn’t fogged my judgement. This is why being cold and collected is always favorable and I leave the rage to my brother. Fucking messes with your head.
Ten minutes later, I’m glad it’s my driver tackling this interminable journey, and not me. I really do have too short a fuse to deal with traffic right now.
The twenty-mile trip takes an hour and a half, not unusual, but not doing anything to help my frame of mind, either. I tried, in vain, to keep myself distracted with emails and information, but my mind is fucked. Damn Emylyah for this!
I have a penthouse apartment in Hamilton Heights, which would have been much closer, but since marrying, I’ve preferred to keep my family out of the thick of it. Much like Dominic and Roisin have done. Straddling the line between the Irish mob and the Italian Cosa Nostra since their marriage has brought the families closer together - whether they like it or not, and the jury is still out on that one - the couple have relocated to the West Village, a neutral territory in between both enclaves.
As we pull up at their traditional townhouse, I tell my driver to circle until I call him to pick me up.
Things don’t get any better. My initial relief to find both Roisin and Dominic at home, quickly wanes as Roisin stares at me and screeches. “What do you mean, she’s missing? What the hell did you do now, asshole!?”
I growl deep in my throat and narrow my eyes at her. Nobody speaks to me like that.
Unfortunately, Dominic is equally protective of his wife, much more so than I am of Emylyah, in fact, since theirs is a love match. He glares and steps between us, his eyes never leaving my face.
"Easy, Niko,” he says with deceptive calm before turning to Roisin.
I force myself to take a deep breath, reining in my temper. He's right, of course. Lashing out at Roisin won't help matters.
“Let’s keep things civil, shall we, Tesoro?" he tells her, his voice holding only the mildest rebuke, but his features stern.
Surprisingly, the redheaded spitfire listens, and I have to wonder what kind of magic he wields over Emylyah’s outspoken friend. But the way she surreptitiously rubs her butt gives me a clue and for the first time in the last forty-eight hours, I suppress a smile.
"Have you heard from her?" I ask, cutting to the chase. "Has she contacted you at all?"
Roisin's fiery expression softens slightly, worry creeping in. "No, I haven't. Not since... when did this happen exactly?"
