Page 72 of Sexting my Bratva Daddies

Without telling any of us? I struggled to believe that. Even if she withheld not feeling well, she would have at least left us a note. But I nodded and backed away. “Thank you. I suppose she will let us know something soon.”

“I’ll try calling her.” Elena reached for her phone. “She might have fallen asleep or something.”

“Good idea.” It wasn’t what I wanted to hear, but I had nothing else.

I returned to our offices, my steps pulling me to Peyton’s desk first.

I removed the food from the bag, checked under it, then opened every drawer.

I even checked under her keyboard, thinking she might have written a note but not wanted to bother us during meetings to deliver it.

Nothing. I checked my phone again.

No missed calls or text messages.

Nothing in the app.

My frustration took me by the throat, driving me into Misha’s office.

Viktor sat behind the desk, one hand over his mouth and chin as he leaned over the keyboard and frowned. “Come look.”

He shoved his palm against the edge of the desk with a curse so full of venom, my heart stopped.

Misha and I closed in from either side.

Viktor tapped the play button, and a video began.

The parking garage came into view, the angle of the camera pointing toward our vehicles.

Shadows shifted and moved, then Peyton walked into the bottom corner of the frame. She paused.

“Sound?” I asked.

Viktor shook his head. “We never upgraded to audio.”

“That changes tonight.” I fisted my hands on the desk and leaned my weight onto them.

Peyton took several steps toward my car, her body language tense. In a split second, she wheeled. Men rushed from every side and surrounded her.

“No.” Misha slammed his fists into the desk, almost cracking it with his power. Curses poured from him, his Russian turning his voice thick.

Viktor flinched when a needle appeared on the screen and was jammed into her neck.

Several masked men hauled her into a van and peeled out, smoke pouring from the tires.

“Track them.” I stabbed a finger at the screen.

“Already have the programs running, but there are no license plates.” Viktor barely opened his mouth to spit out the words.

My body heated, and I slammed a fist into the wall.

Misha threw the couch. One second, it was on the floor. The next, he’d heaved it into the air. It flipped once then landed upside down.

Viktor remained at the desk, his hands clenched so tight, his body vibrated. He shoved to his feet, his face purpling as he bellowed a curse.

Anton.

The name slapped me hard, knocking me back a step. I threw another punch, my fist crumpling the drywall and continuing through to the insulation.