Page 25
Lincoln
I wait near the bar, swirling what’s left of my drink in one hand. The ice clinks against the glass in a soft, rhythmic way that does nothing to soothe the restless tension coiling in my gut. Isabel has been gone too long—she stepped away with Vera not long after we had one of the most passionate moments of my life, but now minutes have crawled by. Ten, fifteen, maybe more. And neither Vera, Isabel, nor Trey, for that matter, has returned.
A knot of worry forms in my chest, tightening with every breath. I lean against the marble counter, scanning the opulent room. The music swirls in the background. Laughter bubbles up in distant corners, the hush of discreet conversations and the occasional moan from a couple too carried away to care about subtlety. But no sign of Isabel.
I check my phone for the fifth time in as many minutes. No messages, no calls. Blood pounds in my temples, an alarm bell telling me something’s off. I set my drink on the bar, the condensation leaving a slick ring. Then I push off from the counter and start weaving my way through the crowd.
I spot one of the club’s servers in a burgundy vest passing by, balancing a tray of elaborate cocktails. I tap his shoulder to catch his attention. “Excuse me,” I say, striving for polite. “Have you seen a woman in a black dress? She might’ve been with someone in a gold gown, or a tall guy in a navy suit.”
He blinks once, thinking. “I’m not sure, sir.” His gaze drifts nervously to the crowd. “All the women here look stunning in black or gold, and everyone’s dressed similarly. Perhaps you should check the next room?”
My patience frays. “Thanks,” I mutter and press on.
Trepidation churns in my gut as I zigzag between clusters of partygoers, murmuring apologies when I bump an elbow or step on a toe. Everyone seems too caught up in their own amusements—couples leaning in to share hush-hush words, or full-on making out in corners.
Eventually, I make it to a corridor near the side of the main lounge. It’s the one that leads to the restrooms, if I recall correctly. With a quick glance behind me, I notice Vera’s gold dress is nowhere in sight, nor is Trey’s suit or that signature grin of his. My heart thuds. They’re missing, and so is Isabel. Not good.
Stepping into the corridor, I follow the subdued lighting to a door that could be the women’s restroom. My pulse kicks up as I knock. “Vera? Isabel?” I wait a beat, listening for any stir of movement inside.
No answer. I knock again, louder. A woman in a beaded mask steps out of the men’s room across the hall, giving me an odd look before gliding past. My anxiety spikes.
I test the handle. It gives, so I step inside, calling out softly, “Hello? Vera, Isa—” I swallow the rest of her name, my nerves shattered when I realize I’m all alone in here.
My skin prickles with goosebumps as a chill seeps into my bones. She’s gone, an insistent voice hammers in my head.
Stepping back into the hallway, I spot a side door that looks like it might lead deeper into the building or perhaps to a service corridor. It’s locked when I try the knob. Could she have gone out that way? My mind conjures up a dozen worst-case scenarios, and each one leaves me more unsettled.
I dig my phone from my pocket, swiping it open with fingers that shake. The ring of Dean’s phone feels painfully slow, but at least he picks up on the second ring.
“Lincoln?” he says, voice edged with tension. “I wasn’t expecting a call tonight. Everything okay?”
“No.” My voice cracks a little despite my attempt to remain calm. “It’s Isabel. She went off with Vera to the bathroom, and now she’s gone. Trey’s missing, too. Something’s off.”
A beat of silence. Then Dean curses under his breath. “Where the hell are you?”
“The club,” I say, trying not to let the panic show. “That fancy private event. The one we thought you arranged for us—remember?”
Dean’s confusion radiates through the phone. “Arranged for you? Lincoln, I didn’t arrange anything. I told you I’d do some digging, but I never specifically set up an invite.”
A wave of dread sweeps over me. “But the text invitation came from the club, referencing Devereaux. We assumed you and Devereaux pulled strings.”
Dean’s voice tightens. “I never authorized that. For all I know, Devereaux might have done this on his own—or someone else used his name. Dammit, Lincoln, this could be a trap.”
My heart plummets, all the puzzle pieces snapping into place far too late. The hours we spent here, trusting it was a safe infiltration, now feel like we’ve walked right into a lion’s den. “I’m worried something happened,” I rasp. “She’s nowhere to be found. Vera and Trey vanished, too.”
“Stay put,” Dean orders, a rare quiver of fear beneath his tone. “I’m on my way. I’ll bring backup. I’m calling Dev now. We’ll tear that place apart if we have to.”
My relief is immediate and overwhelming. Despite our rocky relationship lately, Dean’s protective streak is exactly what we need right now. “Hurry,” I manage before ending the call.
Clutching the phone, I stand in the hallway, every instinct screaming at me to do something—anything—to find her. A server with a tray of cocktails drifts by, and I practically corner him. “Have you seen my wife? Black dress, with a gold-dressed woman named Vera?”
He blinks, startled. “Sorry, sir, I can’t say I have.”
Agitation gnaws at me. “Check the side entrances, or the staff corridors. Maybe they went out for air. If you see her, or them, tell them I’m looking, all right?”
He nods hastily, stepping around me. I exhale, forcing my mounting panic into a tight box. Think, Lincoln. Where else could they have gone?
I retrace my steps toward the main lounge, scanning every face, ignoring the occasional flirtatious smile or questioning glance. My focus zeroes in on finding any clue that might lead me to Isabel. The shimmering lights and extravagant décor suddenly feel hostile, as though mocking my desperation.
I approach another group of people—two men and a woman standing near a velvet chaise—interrupting their conversation. “Excuse me,” I say, voice taut. “Have you seen a woman in a black dress, about this tall?” I gesture roughly at my shoulder height. “She might’ve been with another woman in gold, or a man in a navy suit.”
They exchange glances, bemused. One of the men shrugs. “Sorry, buddy. There are a lot of black dresses and navy suits here. Maybe try the bar?”
I bite back a curse. “Thanks,” I mutter, pivoting away. The bar’s the first place I started. Time’s ticking, and every second feels like a further risk that Isabel is in danger.
Blood pounds in my ears as I make my way to the next group—a cluster of older couples perched on a set of tufted armchairs. I plaster on a polite smile that feels painfully fake. “Excuse me,” I begin, “I’m looking for my wife. Black dress, dark hair, with a woman named Vera in gold. Or possibly a guy named Trey. Ring any bells?”
An elegant woman with silver-streaked hair purses her lips. “Hmm. We did see a blonde in gold heading toward the back corridors earlier, but we were a bit… preoccupied.” She glances coyly at the couple next to her, who exchange knowing smirks.
I quell the urge to snap at them and instead press, “Which way?”
She points a bejeweled hand toward a door draped with a velvet curtain, which presumably leads to some discreet area for more exclusive gatherings—or, as I now suspect, more nefarious doings. “There,” she says. “But she wasn’t alone. I think there were a few others, though I didn’t see who exactly.”
Without waiting, I offer a terse “Thanks,” and hurry in the direction she indicated. My heart’s beating like a war drum as I slip behind the velvet curtain. The music muffles a bit, replaced by a hush that’s abruptly colder, emptier. Low lights line a narrow corridor, though there’s a faint murmur of voices deeper within.
I pass two doors. One is locked when I test the handle, and from the other, soft laughter spills out. Could be anyone. I grit my teeth, trying to decide which route to take first, when the door behind me abruptly opens and a couple stumbles out, giggling, their clothes slightly disheveled. They barely spare me a glance before wandering off. That leads me to wonder if every door here opens to some private little hideaway.
I move further down, determined to check each and every one if I have to. At the end, there’s a T-junction: left or right. I’m about to turn left when something in me warns to be systematic. I phone Dean again, pulling the device to my ear as I stand there. He picks up quickly—like he was expecting me.
“Any news?” Dean asks, his voice taut with tension.
“Not yet.” My pulse roars. “I’m in a back corridor behind a curtained doorway. This place is a damn labyrinth. Are you close?”
“Just arrived,” Dean says, and I can hear background noise—likely the commotion at the club’s main entrance. “I’ve got two guys with me from our security detail. Where exactly are you?”
I glance around, frustrated. “I’m near the main lounge, behind a velvet curtain that leads to some private area. Head in, keep an eye out for a corridor with low lights. That’s me.”
“All right, I see a guard up ahead,” Dean says, presumably to someone else on his side. Then into the phone: “We’ll find you. Don’t do anything stupid.”
I almost laugh at the irony. “No promises. Just hurry.” I end the call and slip the phone into my pocket, tension still raking through every muscle.
Time is not on my side. If Isabel is in danger, every passing moment could be critical. I half expect Trey or Vera to pop out, wearing that smug grin, telling me this was all a game. But the corridor remains ominously silent.
Choosing the left corridor, I walk briskly, trying handles as I go. The second door I test actually creaks open, revealing a small lounge area with plush couches, deserted except for the pungent aroma of incense. A flickering candle throws dancing shadows on the walls, giving the space a haunted feel. No one inside, definitely not Isabel.
I close it softly and keep moving. My mind replays the last glimpses I had of her—her gray eyes lit by caution, the gentle parting of her lips as she said she’d be right back. Guilt gnaws at me. I should never have let her out of my sight. But there was no reason to suspect Vera was leading her into a trap… until now.
A sudden shuffle of footsteps behind me jerks me around. Dean appears, flanked by two men from Maddox Security. Ranger and Orion. Relief hits me so hard my knees almost buckle. Dean’s dressed in a dark suit, his expression carved with worry and anger.
“Lincoln,” he mutters, crossing the distance in a few strides. “Any sign of her?”
“Not yet,” I say, voice rough. “I’m checking these back rooms. The staff or someone might have seen her, but I’ve been coming up empty.”
Dean rakes a hand through his short hair. “Devereaux claims he doesn’t know anything. He was surprised when I told him you two were invited tonight. He’s checking cameras now.”
A spike of fury flares in me. “Heard.”
“Let’s keep checking,” Dean mutters. “We need to focus on Isabel.” He gestures to Ranger and Orion, who nod and fan out. Ranger heads right, Orion goes back toward the main corridor. “We’ll comb every inch of this place.”
I exhale a shaky breath, gratitude flooding me that I’m not doing this alone anymore. Still, my heart clenches with fear. “I’m worried they already took her out of here,” I confess quietly. “Vera and Trey have been MIA. They must be in on it.”
Dean’s face hardens. “Then we find them,” he says simply. “They can’t have gotten far. There are cameras, staff, someone must have seen something.”
We press on, systematically opening doors. Each reveals either an empty lounge, a startled couple in mid-sexcapade, or more locked closets. The fiasco stirs a wave of annoyance from some of the guests, but once they see my thunderous expression, they shut up fast.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I yank it out, half-hoping it’s Isabel. But it’s an unknown number. I answer on reflex. “Hello?”
Static crackles, then a single breath. My heart leaps, but a voice cuts through—one I don’t recognize. “Mr. Zane,” it says mockingly. A man’s voice, tinted with a smug undertone. “Don’t bother searching the club. Isabel’s gone.”
A rush of terror chills my blood. “Where is she?” I snarl.
Dean whips around at my tone, eyes sparking. I put the phone on speaker, letting him hear.
The man laughs, a low, predatory sound. “Somewhere safe. For us, at least. You want her back? You might want to talk to your friend Dean.”
“He’s here with me,” I repeat, voice shaking with fury.
“Who the fuck is this?” Dean barks out.
“Ah, hello, Dean. We’ve got two women here you’ll be interested in saving,” the voice drawls. “But don’t bother, they’ll both end up just like my brother.” The line goes dead.
My hand trembles around the phone, rage and dread warring in my chest. Dean looks like he wants to punch a hole in the wall.
“Lazarus Delgado.” Dean grabs his own phone from his back pocket. “He spoke of two women,” he says as he pushes a button and holds the phone to his ear, “Sophia,” he whispers as he slides the phone away. “She’s not answering.” He glides his fingers over the phone.
“Are you sure they have her?”
He pulls up the security feed from his home he shares with his wife, Sophia. “Mother fucker,” he grits out when a van pulls onto the screen of his phone, and two men hop out. “Fuck.”
“We need to find them,” Ranger says, making his way toward the grand staircase in the center of the club. “We need to watch the security footage. See who took ‘em.”
“He’s right,” Orion says, clutching Dean’s shoulder. He tries to steer Dean away from the spot he’s rooted in.
“If they hurt her,” Dean whispers, his phone gripped tightly in his hand, his eyes still focused on the security footage playing from his home.
“We’ll find them,” Orion says, and we all follow Ranger up the stairs.
Devereaux greets us once we get to the top. “They’ve swiped my system. I’ve got a hacker friend trying to uncover the lost footage, but so far, it’s not looking good.” He leads us to a room with a bank of monitors.
There’s two men seated behind the monitors, scouring through the footage.
“There. Them,” I shout, moving toward one of the monitors. “That’s Trey and Vera. From earlier tonight.”
All the men look closer, as one of the men pulls up a closer shot of the couple.
“They don’t look familiar,” Devereaux says, pulling his phone out of his pocket. He makes a call, pacing the room. “Adele, I need the list to the VIP event tonight. There’s a couple here I don’t recognize, says their names are,” he waits for me to fill him in.
“Trey and Vera,” I say.
“Trey and Vera. What’s their last name?” He nods as Adele on the other line must say something in return. He hangs up, his brown eyes meeting mine. “Adele says there was no Vera or Trey, so I’m going to send her a screenshot of the couple and we’ll figure out who they are.”
Dean’s pacing the room, furious as he keeps watching the security footage from his phone. “I’ve just sent this footage to Asher, and he’s going to try to get some clues and such from the feed.”
“Smart thinking,” Ranger says, pulling his own phone out. “I’m calling brAVO team, and getting them to your house so they can see if anyone saw anything.”
Dean blows out a frustrated breath. “Thanks, man. I was getting there. I just can’t think straight. My wife, and my sister. Both kidnapped by a man with a vendetta.”
“Who is Lazarus Delgado?” Orion asks, his eyes volleying back and forth between Dean and Devereaux.
“He’s the head of the Delgado crime syndicate. Really bad mother fucker, or so they say. He holds his meetings here, but I’ve never had too many problems with them before,” Devereaux says.
Dean’s lips thin, and for a moment, he just stands there, breathing hard. Then he turns to his men, voice cutting like a whip. “Some bad shit went down a while back between his brother and our mission when we were looking for Bishop.”
Ah, Bishop Blackstone, the asshole who threatened a lot of influential families. I’d watched Maddox Security while Dean left to finally rid the world of Bishop Blackstone and his brand of filth last year.
The door to the room opens and a taller, blonde woman walks in. Her heels click on the floor with purpose as she strides confidently toward Devereaux. “Tyler and Livvy Mayweather. That’s the couple in the picture you sent. They left the club about an hour or so ago. Not sure where they went,” the woman says.
“Thanks, Adele. Call Chloe, and get her and the rest of Saint Pierce PD in on this.” Devereaux nods. “My wife’s a detective with the Saint Pierce Police Department, and I’m going to have Adele get her up to speed.” Devereaux steps away from the group with Adele, obviously filling her in on the situation.
I don’t know how I feel about having the cops involved now. Part of me is relieved that we’ve got more hands on deck, but another part of me worries that this means the situation has escalated out of our control.
“Ranger, Orion, call everyone you know. I want video footage of all the streets. I want to know where that van leaving my house went. I want video footage surrounding this club, seeing where Isabel’s kidnappers went. I want answers. Now.” Dean’s furious as he grips his phone tight, making a call.
Orion and Ranger nod and hurry off, leaving me and Dean in the room. I press a hand to my forehead, reeling from the conversation. “We walked into a trap,” I say bitterly. “I should’ve known.”
Dean’s hand clamps on my shoulder, a heavy weight. “It’s not your fault,” he says, though his voice is tight with suppressed anger. “They fooled both of us. Right now, we need to figure out how to get them back.”
My mouth tastes like ashes. “I feel like I’m losing her.”
He exhales, posture rigid. “We’ll find her, Lincoln. You really care about my sister.” He doesn’t phrase it as a question because I fear he already knows the answer.
“I think I always have,” I tell him, worried about what he might make of our connection.
“I know you have,” he smiles briefly, “it’s why I put you on this job.”
Together we leave the security room. I stare down the long hallway where I hoped to find Isabel. Now it feels like an empty tomb of shattered illusions. I can almost hear her calling my name, that last worried glance she gave me when she left with Vera. Guilt churns in my stomach. She needed me, and I wasn’t there.
Dean’s voice breaks through the haze. “Come on. Let’s figure this shit out, and get ready for one hell of a fight.”
I nod, forcing air into my lungs. “Right.” My mind lasers in on a single thought: Isabel is out there, afraid, possibly hurt. And I have to do whatever it takes to bring her home. “I’m ready.”