Stolen: Dante’s Vow by Natasha Knight
Dante
My phone rings, waking me. It takes me a minute to realize where I am. In my bedroom in the Staten Island house lying on top of the bedding fully clothed.
I fumble for the light, for the phone vibrating on the nightstand. It disconnects before I get to it but immediately starts to ring again. I answer on the second ring.
“Brother?” I ask, seeing Cristiano’s face on the screen. He looks grave.
“We missed something,” he says. “Something big.”
I scrub my face, brace myself.
“St. James. I know why he’s pushing so hard. Why he needs that confirmation so badly.”
“Why?”
“We assumed when his fiancée was killed that the baby died.”
I feel myself go cold.
“He’s been off the grid for the last five years. Disappeared like a fucking ghost.”
“What the fuck are you saying?”
“The woman, Kimberly Barrett, she didn’t die at the café. She died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. But they were able to save the baby.”
“What?”
“A little girl. No name. At least not that we know. Just the word of one of the medics who delivered her. There’s no record of the birth otherwise. At least not at first glance. It’s why we missed it.”
“Jesus.”
“St. James left Mexico two nights later with his fiancée’s body. That was the last anyone heard from him. But it wasn’t just her body he brought home. It was his daughter.”
I push my hands into my hair. “Christ.”
“He’s kept the child a secret for a reason. Buried the fact of her existence. Maybe he’s afraid the person who put the hit on him would go after her.”
“He’s doing this to keep his daughter safe.” Fuck.
“There’s one more thing.”
“Fuck.”
“He’s gone. The penthouse is empty.”
“What?”
“I don’t know how he did it. Charlie’s had eyes on the place since we’ve known about it.”
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
“Fuck!”
“Is Matthaeus able to confirm Mara’s location is secure?”
I open my mouth to answer but just then the bedroom door slams open, surprising me. I look up to find Matthaeus standing in the doorway looking like he, too, has just woken up, his hair disheveled. Shirt untucked from his jeans.
And I know from the look in his eyes the answer to Cristiano’s question.
“I don’t know how it happened!” He fists handfuls of hair, eyes wild.
“No.” I feel the blood drain from my head and don’t recognize my own voice.
No reply.
“No.” I say again, my throat tight because I know what this is.
“Fuck!” He slams his fist into the wall.
I swallow as I hear Cristiano’s curse.
“A team came in. Military precision. Masked. Ready. Gassed our men, no casualties. Noah’s beat up—”
“Mara,” I say, somehow not screaming her name.
“He took her. Left his fucking calling card.”
“Who?” Do I need to ask though?
“Jericho St. James.”