Chapter 37

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Saverio

T he motel is a cheap, rundown hovel, exactly the kind of place where I expected to find Mary. The April night is cold, a breeze rustling the weeds that creep around the fence. Except for the sedan Mary drove, there’s only one other vehicle parked close to a vending machine—an old pickup.

We left our cars a block down the road. Dante and I keep in the shadows as we make our way past an empty swimming pool filled with rubble to the single row of rooms. My men are stationed around the parking lot and the back in case of an ambush, which I already eliminated as a possibility based on the drone footage of the area. The place is isolated, and we’re the only people outside. Our infrared drone camera didn’t pick up soldiers hidden in the nearby buildings. Not counting the man at the reception desk, there are three people in the motel, two in the room where I assume the owner of the pickup is sleeping, and in Mary’s room…only one. There’s no sign of a baby in the car or anywhere on the property.

I try not to think about that. Not for now. Not until I get answers from Mary. She’s the only lead I’ve got.

I scan the area before giving the go-ahead sign to Dante. He’s agile on his feet while I drag behind with my cane. The three men tailing us split up at my signal. Two of them flatten their backs on the wall next to the door while the third uses the vending machine to climb swiftly onto the roof.

The curtains in front of our target room window are drawn. Two windows down, a woman riding a fat old man’s dick is visible in the light that spills onto the cracked walkway. They’re noisy, not caring who hears or sees or maybe thinking no one is going to come around here at this hour of the morning. The guard who scouted the side of the building takes up a station in front of their room in case they get nosy.

The hollow-core door I’m aiming for is flimsy. It doesn’t take much to kick it open. I aim my gun in front of me, my finger ready on the trigger. Dante covers my back. A third man points a flashlight into the room. The beam cuts over two single beds with mustard-yellow bedspreads. A laminate nightstand separates them. The sharp copper scent that infuses the moldy air already tells me someone beat us to it before the man moves his light to the corner where Mary Brennan sits with her back braced against the wall.

I flick my fingers in quiet instruction and point at the lamp next to the fat-belly television. Dante switches it on. A weak yellow glow washes out the darkness. My gaze is drawn to where Mary clutches her stomach. Blood pours through her fingers and drips down her hands onto the threadbare green carpet.

She lifts her chin and, nostrils flaring, gives me a conceited smile as I crouch down in front of her. I lock my gloved hand around her wrist and pull it away from her stomach. The only sound she makes is a hiss.

I look at her abdomen. The silk of her cobalt-blue dress is torn over her midriff, the edges falling open. The cut is deep. Judging by the amount of blood soaking her lap and the carpet, she’s close to bleeding out. Unless I call an ambulance.

I lift my gaze slowly, meeting her muddy brown eyes. The truth hangs in the stench of the air between us. She’s done for.

She splutters a laugh and spits words at me. “You’re too late.”

My voice is controlled. Calm. Deadly. “Where is my daughter?”

Sneering, she says, “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“What did you do, Mary? Or shall I rather say, what did you try to do? Were you going to ask us for ransom for your own granddaughter?”

“Ransom? Do you think I’m fucking stupid? I sold her, you fucking idiot,” she says with an ugly laugh that turns into a coughing fit.

The fury that boils up inside me like white-hot venom demands that I end her miserable life with as much pain as possible, but she doesn’t have long. I don’t have long.

What kind of person buys a baby? A stinking rich couple who can’t have kids? Someone who traffics kids or organs? Someone who means me harm? It’s the latter that makes me break out in a cold sweat under my coat.

I chuckle. “Well, it doesn’t look as if you’ve been very clever. Whoever you made a deal with did you in. Are you going to take his name to your grave, or are you going to let me kill him?”

“That fucker tricked me.” She bares her teeth. “Fucking piece of shit.”

A sharp sliver of fear pricks my spine. “Is that why Raphael Morelli went to see you at the center? Was this his idea?”

She grinds her molars together, glaring at me while she weighs her limited options. One, she spites me and deprives Anya of any joy for the rest of her life by keeping her mouth shut. Two, she tells me and gets revenge for the betrayal through me.

Fixing me with a look of hatred, she makes up her mind. “He wanted information about the house and the alarm and how many men and guns there were and where and when you went and that kind of shit, but since you and my uppity-ass fucking daughter threw me out like garbage, he came up with a new plan.”

I ball my hand into a fist to prevent myself from grabbing her neck and ripping out her windpipe. “To steal Claire.”

“He said he’d give me a million fucking bucks,” she says as if that makes it all right.

“Instead he gave you a taste of his knife.”

“Fucking son of a cunt.”

“Where did he take Claire?”

“How the fuck am I supposed to know?”

I narrow my eyes. “It’s in your best interest to work with me here.”

“I said I don’t fucking know. The guy is all mysterious and shit. Always uses a burner phone. Never even came to the apartment he rented for me. If he did, I would’ve told him to his face the place was a louse-infested shit-fucking-hole. And I’m worth more than fucking tinned ravioli and frozen pizzas.”

So that’s how she survived. Raphael Morelli paid her bills. “What car did he drive?”

“Dunno. He always drove a different one. I didn’t exactly have time to look through the window before he walked in and gutted me. That fucking baby wouldn’t stop bawling. I had my fucking hands full, okay?”

I wish to God she wasn’t dying, because I want to kill her slowly. “How long ago?”

“Twenty minutes, no more.”

I nod at Dante. He leaves to pull the street camera recording so we can hopefully get a license plate. He’ll also send out a search party to cover the radius a vehicle can travel in thirty minutes at the maximum speed limit. He knows the protocol.

“Now get me a fucking doctor to stitch me up,” she says.

Stupid after all.

I lean in closer, getting a real good look at her eyes. I take in everything, how she catches on with a slight flare of those bloodshot pools, the knowledge that settles in their depths, and how a sardonic smile curls her upper lip even as fear dilates her pupils.

“I hope she fucking dies,” she says, laughing and then stopping to grab at her belly.

Yeah. That hurts. Let’s see how much more this hurts.

I fist my hand and push it against her wound. Her eyes grow to the size of saucers. I take it all in as I plunge deep and grab a handful of slimy intestines. I enjoy the pain that burns brightly in her irises before the light in them dims. I twist my wrist and rip, my fist making a suction sound as I pull it from her body. A wet noise follows as her guts spill through the cut, turning the room into a slaughterhouse.

The man with the torch drops it. He makes a gagging sound. I don’t miss a second, not the faintest of breaths that fans over her lips or the disbelief that taints those muddy browns before her eyelids droop. The best moment of all, the one I savor the most, is when the light in them goes out.