Married to the Bad Boy(78)
“We’ll find Tony. Tommy might know something.”
Melanie gets on the phone with her boyfriend as I shake in the seat, staring ahead but not really seeing anything. The phone is hot in my hand, and a wave of nausea overcomes me when I look at it. It’s contaminated. It’s an extension of the man who did nothing but abuse me for months, and now he’s extinguished the only light in my life.
Fucking hell, get a grip on yourself.
Trembling a bit on my feet, I walk out of the car with Melanie fast on my heels. Shopping bags bounce against my legs as I hurtle up the stairs. A silver Mercedes rolls against the curb and Tommy’s anxious head leans toward the window.
“Get in.”
Melanie opens the trunk while I shove the bags inside and then I climb in the backseat as Melanie joins him in the front.
“Tommy—have you heard from Tony?”
He gazes at me from the rear-view mirror. “No, sorry.”
“We need to find him. I think Rafael might have—” the breath hitches in my throat and I swallow hard, clearing it, “might have done something to him.”
Tommy’s eyes widen as he pulls from the curb and drives us away. “What makes you say that?”
Melanie gives me an anxious look as I pull up the text messages. “The texts he sent me are not from Tony, they’re from Rafael.”
It boils my blood to see him raise his eyebrows as though I’m being overdramatic. We stop at a light and he seizes the phone, scrolling through them. Then he shrugs.
My heart sinks.
“I don’t see what’s the big deal—”
“Tony would not talk to me like that!” I snarl at him.
“Actually, Elena, I’ve known him for longer than you have. This doesn’t really surprise me.”
My nails dig into my palms as he hands me back my phone. A powerless feeling throbs in my chest. Tony’s out there, somewhere. Injured. In pain. He needs me to fight for him.
“Tommy, I’m telling you, Rafael kidnapped him. I need your fucking help!”
Suspicious eyes from the mirror narrow at me. “Elena, you’re overreacting. If anything, he’s drunk. Men are jerks when they’re drunk.”
“No, I’m telling you, that’s not it.”
“Tommy, just bring her to the fucking bar,” Melanie finally yells.
He gives her a dark look. “Fine, but you might not like what you see there.”
“Meaning what?”
A fleeting look makes my insides crawl.
“He could be there with another girl.”
Melanie slugs Tommy’s shoulder with her fist, a very angry look on her face.
“Jesus, woman! I’m fuckin’ driving!”
“Don’t be such an asshole!”
“I’m not.”
I don’t listen to them bicker. The irritating noise falls to the background and the only sound is my heartbeat in my head, pulsing loudly. What should I do? I know in my heart of hearts that something went terribly wrong when Tony left the house. Tommy isn’t likely to help me, but maybe John will listen.
What if he doesn’t think the texts are proof, either?
Then I take matters into my own hands.
I’ll find Rafael.
I’ll kill him.
There are other options besides the Mafia. Tony told me all about the bikers in Sorel-Tracy, which is northeast of the city. Their headquarters is a huge concrete bunker that you can see from the highway. The family is allied with them. Maybe they’d be able to help me.
Tommy parks the car and I immediately get out, looking through the darkened windows of his bar for Tony’s shape. Even though I’m sure he’s not there, I can’t help but hope. Tommy rolls his eyes at me as he opens the door for Melanie and I. In the late afternoon, the bar has only a few early drinkers, and none of them are Tony. I wheel around, and Melanie fixes her boyfriend with a death glare.
“He’s not here. We need to do something!”
His Adam’s apple bobs as he looks away from Melanie’s heated stare. “Look, this doesn’t prove anything. The man could be anywhere—”
My scream of frustration cuts his voice off and I rush past him, heading for his office. Swift footsteps follow me into the back and I yank open drawers beside his desk, looking for my money.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
He grabs my shoulder roughly and I whirl around, tears blinding my eyes.
“I want to withdraw ten thousand dollars.”
An unpleasant grimace spreads over his face. “Why?” he says, placing his hands on his hips.
“What the fuck does it matter to you? It’s my money!”
“I know that fucking look—it means trouble for me. You’re planning to do something stupid—”