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Nothing.

No calls. No texts. No word from her at all.

The first day, I told myself she needed time. That she was checking on her mother, making sure everything was okay at home. That she would call when she could.

The second day, worry had crept in. Dark thoughts I couldn’t shake. What if Kelley had found out? What if he’d locked her in her room, taken her phone, kept her from leaving? What if he’d hurt her?

By the third day, I was barely holding it together.

I hadn’t slept. Not really. Just brief stretches of unconsciousness that felt more like passing out than actual rest. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her face. Heard her voice. Felt the ghost of her touch against my skin.

And every time I woke up, she still wasn’t there.

I stood at the window as the sun set on the third day, watching the city lights flicker to life below. The sky was painted in shades of orange and purple, beautiful in a way that felt almost cruel. How could the world keep turning when mine had stopped the moment she walked out that door? My hands were shaking. I pressed them flat against the cool glass, trying to ground myself, trying to think rationally.

My mind was screaming at me to go to Kelley’s house. Demand to see her. Make sure she was okay.

But that would expose us. Would put her in even more danger.

The alternative was calling Giovanni. Get him to use his contacts. To find out what was happening.

But that would mean admitting how deep I was in this. How much she meant to me.

Maybe I should...

There was a knock at the door.

I froze, my heart stopping mid-beat. Then it started again, pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat, in my temples, in every nerve ending in my body. I crossed the room in three strides and yanked the door open.

Madigan stood there.

For a moment, I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Could only stare at her, drinking in the sight of her like a man dying of thirst.

She was alive. She was here.

There was a man standing beside her. Tall, well-dressed, with sharp eyes that assessed me with a single glance. I recognized him immediately. Crispin Sinclair. His reputation as the Devil incarnate preceded him. Money, power, connections that ran deep into places most people didn’t even know existed.

I reached for Madigan and pulled her into my arms, holding her so tightly that I was probably hurting her. I didn’t care about that either. I buried my face in her hair, breathing her in, feeling her solid and real and safe against me. “You’re okay,” I said, the words coming out rough and broken. “Christ, you’re okay.”

Her arms wrapped around me, holding me just as tightly. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I couldn’t call.”

I pulled back just enough to look at her, my hands framing her face, my thumbs brushing over her cheekbones. Checking for injuries, for signs that someone had hurt her. “Are you hurt? Did he?”

“I’m fine,” she blurted. “I’m okay, I promise.”

I kissed her then, hard and desperate, pouring three days of fear and worry and relief into it. She kissed me back, her fingers tangling in my hair, and for a moment the rest of the world disappeared.

Then someone cleared their throat.

I pulled away from Madigan reluctantly, keeping one arm around her waist as I looked at the man standing in my doorway. His expression was carefully neutral, but there was something in his eyes—understanding, maybe. Or amusement. “Mr. Valentinetti,” he said, his voice smooth and cultured. “May we come in?”

I stepped back, pulling Madigan with me, not willing to let her go even for a second as Sinclair entered and closed the door behind him, his movements precise and controlled.

The three of us stood there for a moment, the silence heavy with unspoken questions.

I looked at Sinclair, then back at Madigan. “What’s going on?”

She took a breath, and I felt her body tense against mine as she whispered, “I overheard something. Something I wasn’t supposed to hear.”