Page 59

22
Enzo
The deputy looked thoroughly unimpressed with me as he passed by my cell, handing out mail to the other inmates in the hole. But he didn’t slide anything under my door, which was unusual.
Amara,
Are you avoiding me, baby? What’s going on? Talk to me, or I’ll have to come find you myself.
-Enzo
She should’ve replied by now; she always did. I stood, going to the door to my cell. “You got anything for me?”
“Nope,” the deputy smirked. “Guess even your lawyer gave up on you, Ricci.”
“Is there a backlog or something?” I pressed, wondering if there was a logical explanation.
“No, she’s just done with you, I bet,” he shook his head. “Smart woman.”
Then he disappeared down the hallway.
My eyes met Vitali’s across from me, at his cell window, staring at me.
“She still hasn’t written you, huh?” Vitali questioned.
“The only times she didn’t write me was when she wasn’t sure if I was back in, and I hadn’t written her,” I began. “But I wrote her every day. There’s no reply, and it’s been a week. That’s not like her.”
“Want me to get someone to call around?” he asked. “Ludovic’s in Gen Pop, so he could. We just need to get the message to him.”
Something didn’t feel right, and I hadn’t heard back from her since the day she didn’t write back to me. There was a pit in my stomach, and my gut had never been wrong.
“No,” I conceded, palming my hidden cell phone. “I’m done waiting. But in the meantime, we need to figure out a way out of here.”
“Medical,” Vitali replied. “Unless you have a lighter in there or something to get them to evacuate you.”
“A riot works,” Luca volunteered. “But good luck getting us out of here unless it’s rec time, and even then, we’re shackled when they take us out.”
“Not if it’s Russo or Romano,” I countered, speaking of the sergeants who had ties to our family.
“I fucking knew those fuckers were crooked,” Durante muttered.
“Are they working tonight?” Luca asked.
“There’s usually always at least one of them working,” Vitali agreed. “Call your girl; if she doesn’t pick up, medical it is.”
I went to the corner of my cell and dialed Amara’s number.
No answer.
I pulled up the tracking app I downloaded and hid it on her phone, tracking her location, messages, and calls.
My stomach burned when I realized she hadn’t called, texted, or moved from her home since last night after she left her office. If she was sick, she at least would’ve called out of work once.
I scowled, dialing my brother.
“What?” Alessandro snapped.
“Call Russo and Romano,” I ordered. “She’s not picking up and hasn’t moved in a week. Her phone’s at her house.”