Page 139 of No Longer Mine

“You’re telling me that Manhattan’s top socialite, Scarlett Montrose, broke into my apartment almost three weeks ago?”

The men looked between each other and didn’t say another word. She rushed to my side and dropped to her knees. Her hands fluttered over my bindings. The men just stood on either side of me, not moving. They didn’t think Mrs. Cristof was a threat, obviously.

“We need to get you out of here before Dimitri finds out. He will kill his father for this, and I don’t think that’s something any of us will come back from.” Her voice was a whisper, only meant for my ears. The guards shuffled, and I knew they’d heard. She pulled at the duct tape around my ankles, but it was no use. “We need to hurry. I don’t know how long Sinclair will be?—”

“You couldn’t have stayed gone just a little while longer, wife?” Sinclair’s voice boomed into the room. “Did you really think my men wouldn’t call me the moment you stepped into the building demanding answers? I have shipments to see about, but instead, I’m here tending to the likes of two women that just don’t understand their place.”

The color drained from Mrs. Cristof’s face, and I knew there was no saving the both of us, not now.

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Dimitri

My fists clenchedat my sides as I stalked across the private drive, rage a cold blade in my chest. They thought hiding Scarlett here, in his apartment, would keep me from getting to her.

They didn’t know who the fuck I was.

Don parked two blocks down, per my orders. I didn’t need backup. I didn’t need a gun. I needed my hands. But I also knew I could only think about her. I was blinded by my rage and determination to get to her, which meant Don was on my heels. He would be coming as backup, but he wouldn’t get in my way.

I bypassed the lobby with a security badge stolen from one of Father’s men. The first guard I encountered stood in the service hallway—lazy posture, eyes half-lidded. He didn’t see me coming. My elbow drove into his windpipe. His body hit the floor without a sound. I caught his fall with one arm, dragging him into the shadows. I slipped the service key from his belt and kept moving. They had men posted on every floor, just like they’d said. I welcomed it.

The next guard was stationed by the maid’s elevator. I waited until his back was turned—then I moved. Two steps, silent. I slammed his head into the wall once, twice. He slid down in a heap.

The elevator chimed. I slipped in. I punched the 14 that would take me to my father’s floor.

As it rose, I rolled my shoulders. The elevator doors opened.

Three men waited. I moved first.

The closest lunged. I grabbed his wrist, twisted it, and I heard the satisfying crack. I used his momentum to drive his body into the second guard. The third aimed a gun. I ducked and drove a heel into his knee. He screamed as it buckled the wrong way and he collapsed.

The second was back on his feet. Sloppy. I swept his legs, caught him mid-fall, and drove my knee into his chest.

Breath gone. Fight gone. I didn’t stop to check.

Scarlett. Scarlett. Scarlett.

Her name was a rhythm in my head, beating in time with the carnage.

I moved through the hallway like a ghost, fast and efficient. One after another, they fell. Bone met bone. Flesh met fury.

By the time I reached the apartment door, blood coated my knuckles.

I kicked it in. The door shattered off its hinges.

A startled shout echoed inside.

I stepped over the threshold. A man ran from the hallway, swinging a baton.

I caught his arm mid-swing, twisted, and drove his head into the marble island.

“Where is she?” I snarled.

He didn’t answer.

I dragged him by the collar and threw him through the glass coffee table. He didn’t get back up.

Then I heard it.