Page 100 of Chained By Fate (Dark Billionaires: Vegas #1)

Forty-One

ANDY

I f pasta could file for asylum, my creation would’ve been first in line. I poked at the sad, slightly charred mess with a fork, wondering if it qualified as a culinary crime or modern art. Probably both. The rich scent of burned garlic and overcooked tomato sauce filled the space.

“Yeah, no,” I muttered, reaching for my phone. “Room service it is.” Matt’s kitchen deserved better than my crimes against Italian cuisine. The sleek marble countertops and professional-grade appliances practically begged for mercy.

I fired off a quick text to Matt: Ordered backup dinner. Your pasta apparently decided to commit suicide. Come home soon?

After ordering enough food to feed a small army—or one very hungry billionaire—I flopped onto the ridiculously comfortable couch, sinking into leather. My phone buzzed.

Ryan: Look what I found. Attached was a meme of a grumpy cat wearing a business suit with the caption, Board Meeting Mood.

I snorted. Shouldn’t you be doing actual work?

Ryan: This IS work. Meme research is crucial for modern business.

Another buzz. This time from Fin: Lunch this weekend? My treat (with your money obviously).

I rolled my eyes. Sure, why not. I love funding your food adventures.

Fin: You’re the best sugar baby ever. How’s Mia btw? Still can’t believe that whole Herbert mess.

The mention of Herbert sent my mind spinning back to last week’s homecoming. Fin and Ethan had practically ambushed us at the airport, despite my multiple texts assuring them everything was fine. Well, as “fine” as things could be after your uncle tries to kidnap your sister and ends up dead.

“You’re sure you’re okay?” Ethan had asked for the millionth time, while Fin stress-ate airport pretzels.

“Yes, mom,” I’d replied, dodging Ethan’s attempt to check for invisible injuries. “Herbert’s dead, Mia’s safe, and Matt’s security is scarier than ever. We’re good.”

The doorbell chimed, snapping me back to the present. Room service rolled in a feast that would make a master chef weep—perfectly grilled ribeye, truffle mac and cheese, Caesar salad that actually looked like salad and not war crimes against lettuce like my attempt, and chocolate lava cake.

I checked my phone again, the screen mocking me with its emptiness. No reply from Matt.

Something cold and heavy settled in my stomach, an instinct I couldn’t explain but couldn’t ignore either.

We hadn’t been dating long—hell, some people would say we weren’t even officially dating yet—but I knew Matt’s habits.

He always replied, even during meetings.

Always. That time he was stuck in back-to-back meetings with the board?

He’d managed to send me stupid memes. During yesterday’s crisis with the hotel renovation contractors?

He’d somehow found time to text me a heart emoji while simultaneously threatening to bankrupt three different companies.

But now? Nothing.

The silence felt wrong, like the quiet before a storm, like the pause before everything falls apart.

It was ridiculous how much this bothered me.

My hands were shaking as I pulled up his contact again, his smirking face looking back at me from the profile picture where he’d stolen my phone to take a selfie just days ago.

I dialed his number, pressing the phone to my ear so hard it hurt. One ring. Two rings. Three—then that automated click that made my heart stop.

Straight to voicemail.

His rich, commanding voice telling me to leave a message felt like a cruel joke. “You’ve reached Matt Caine. Leave a message, and if you’re lucky, I might call back.” The casual arrogance in his tone, usually so amusing, now made my chest ache.

“No, no, no…” The words tumbled out as panic clawed up my throat. Something was wrong. I knew it with the same certainty I knew my own name, knew that despite how new this thing between us was, it was real and important and terrifying in its intensity.

I was moving before I realized it, my sock-clad feet sliding on the marble floors as I burst through the penthouse doors.

Bruno and Tyrone stood like twin mountains of muscle and Kevlar, their usual stoic expressions firmly in place.

But something in my face must have shown because Bruno’s hand twitched toward his concealed weapon.

“I can’t reach Matt.” The words came out strangled, desperate. “He’s not answering. He always answers. Something’s wrong. Something’s?—”

The sickening feeling in my stomach intensified, like my body knew something my mind hadn’t caught up to yet. Like some part of me recognized that the man I was in love with was in danger, and I was standing here in silk socks and his borrowed shirt, useless.

Bruno’s face remained impassive, but his hand moved to his phone. Tyrone shifted slightly, his massive frame blocking my path back into the penthouse—standard security protocol when something went wrong.

“Call Eddie,” I demanded, my voice sharp with growing panic. “He was at the Cosmopolitan. The Palmer Project meeting. Something’s wrong. I know something’s wrong.”

Bruno was already dialing, his fingers moving with mechanical precision. The seconds stretched like hours as we waited for Eddie to pick up. I could hear my heart pounding in my ears, could feel the terror rising like bile in my throat.

“When’s the last contact?” Tyrone asked, his deep voice cutting through my spiral of fear.

“Last text was ninety minutes ago. Said thirty minutes, tops.” My mind raced through the guest list Matt had mentioned earlier. “Xavier was there. And that creepy guy, what’s his name? Porter? The one who always stares at Matt like he’s a piece of meat?”

Bruno’s hand tightened on his phone, the plastic case creaking under the pressure. I watched, fascinated and horrified, as the stoic guard’s face did something I’d never seen before—it showed emotion. Fear. Real, genuine fear that made my blood turn to ice.

Bruno’s voice was carefully controlled, but I could hear the strain. “Boss is missing.”

The world tilted sideways, the opulent hallway spinning around me. “Missing?” The word tasted like ash in my mouth. “What do you mean missing? He’s Matt fucking Caine. He doesn’t just go missing.”

“Security footage shows him alone in the boardroom after the meeting.” Bruno’s words came out clipped, professional, but his eyes betrayed his concern. “Then nothing. No exit footage. No elevator logs. Eddie’s team is searching now. He’s contacting Mr. Maxwell and Mr. Masuda.”

My mind whirled with possibilities, each worse than the last. Xavier, with his thinly veiled threats and obvious hatred? Some business rival Matt hadn’t mentioned? Or…

“Fuck.” I grabbed my phone again, fingers shaking as I scrolled to Ryan’s number. “I need to call Ryan. He needs to know. And?—”

Bruno caught my arm, his grip gentle but firm. “We’ll find him.”

I met the guard’s eyes, seeing my own fear reflected there. “Yes,” I said, voice hard as steel. “We will.”

Because whoever took Matt clearly didn’t know one crucial fact: I didn’t lose the people I loved. Not again. Not after my parents. Never again.

Pacing the length of the penthouse, my fingers trembled as I pressed Ryan’s contact, the sleek phone nearly slipping from my sweaty grip.

“Well, well, well,” Ryan drawled. “If it isn’t my favorite future brother-in-law. Let me guess, Matt’s being an overprotective ass again and you need my embarrassing childhood stories as leverage?—”

“Ryan.” Something in my voice must have given me away because he stopped mid-sentence.

“Andy? What happened?” All playfulness vanished.

“Matt’s missing.” The words felt like glass in my throat. “He was at the Cosmopolitan for the Palmer meeting and now?—”

“Fuck.” I heard rustling, then a crash. “Shit, sorry, knocked over my—never mind. Give me five minutes to throw stuff in a bag. There’s a red-eye out of JFK in two hours.”

“Ryan—”

“Already texting Daniel and Jeremy.” Keys clacked, drawers slammed. “Though Eddie probably called them first. You know how he is with the protocol shit. Parents too. God, where are my—found them!”

I swallowed hard, picturing Ryan tearing through his designer apartment like a hurricane. “Yeah.”

“Andy.” Ryan’s voice softened, though I could still hear him moving. “We’ll find him. Matt’s too stubborn to—” He broke off. “Shit, where’s my—? Never mind, got it. Car’s on its way. Try not to murder anyone before I get there.”

“No promises,” I muttered, but he’d already hung up, probably still cursing and searching for matching socks.

My reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows looked haunted, the Vegas lights behind me creating a halo of neon around my mess of black hair. I dialed James next. He answered before the first ring finished.

“Already in the air,” James’ cool voice held an edge I’d never heard before, like arctic ice about to crack. “Twenty minutes out. Eddie’s briefed me.”

“James, I?—”

“Breathe, Andy.” The command in his voice was pure Maxwell, the kind that made casino high-rollers fold with their full houses. “Panic helps no one. Especially not Matt.”

I forced air into my lungs, watching my reflection steady itself. “Right. Yeah. Breathing. Though technically, panic is just the body’s natural response to?—”

“Andy.”

“Breathing. Got it.”

“Good. Now—” He paused. “I’ve told Mia to stay in LA. After Herbert… we can’t risk both Donovans.” His voice softened slightly. “She’s calling you. Stay put. I’ll be there soon.”

The call ended before I could respond with something appropriately snarky about him being bossy. I stared at my phone, counting seconds. Three… two… one…

Right on cue, Mia’s call lit up my screen. “Hey, sis.”

“Andy!” Her voice was tight with worry, the kind that always made her sound exactly like our mother. “James just told me everything. Said I have to stay here, that it’s too dangerous to come to Vegas. Are you okay? I hate that I can’t?—”