7. Chapter 7

7

B y the time Soren got back to his office from the meeting with his police contact, it was already mid-afternoon. He felt the urgency of the clock running; Ilaria had been missing for nearly a full day. The intensity under his skin was almost unbearable. He wanted to claw out of his skin so he could get some relief.

He wanted to find the Carosis' murderer and release a brutal vengeance.

His gut clenched. He should be out there, scouring the city to find her. But he didn't even know where to start.

He stared across the space that was his office—dark gray walls, gray velvet drapes, walnut bookcase and desk, and clean-lined furniture. His office usually never failed to comfort him. He preferred the dark; he felt safely enveloped in it. The dark kept things hidden away, things he didn't want to acknowledge.

Today, however, even the dark couldn't hide the fact of these brutal murders. The viciousness that had awakened in the pit of his stomach was threatening to unleash. His uncle's best friend was dead. The one he owed his life to. The one with whom a new partnership was supposed to place both families on a path of growth.

The foundation and the future that Soren had worked so hard to build for himself and his siblings suddenly felt unsteady. As if it was all in danger of imploding. While his lot in life wasn't directly jeopardized by the death of the Carosi boss, as devastating as it was, it rocked Galen's foundation—his uncle had been locked in his office all day—and Galen stood at the core of Soren's foundation.

Violence, even peripherally, had a way of provoking a feeling of being on edge, as if a knife suspended over his head could fall any minute.

Then there was Ilaria. He hadn't built a future that included her in it—deliberately so—but yet he felt an almost desperate need to know she was alive.

A combination of simmering fury and something akin to fear roiled through him. The fear was a familiar companion, but it had been years—before he and his siblings moved in with Galen—since this companion had come to visit. It only came around in response to the feeling of utter powerlessness.

He took a long inhale and gave his head a quick shake to clear it. He opened the police report he had received from his police contact. One of the perks of cultivating a relationship with contacts within law enforcement, besides the obvious perk of them looking the other way, was access to confidential documents.

The instant Soren had laid his hands on the report, he scanned it for any signs of Ilaria. But there were no indications she had been in the SUV. Even the number of luggage suggested that only the Carosi boss and his wife were in the vehicle. Was it possible she hadn't come to Edinburgh? Plans could have changed at the last minute. He felt a sliver of hope, one that he tried not to fan, that she was still alive and well.

That realization that she was still in Chicago immediately had him picking up his phone to send her a text message, despite not having had any contact with her for two years. He had stared at his phone, willing her to type back a reply, only to remember it was still the middle of the night in Chicago.

He tapped his pen restlessly on the surface of his desk as he turned back to the beginning of the report now to find clues as to who could be responsible. The crime scene investigation suggested a theory that the SUV was struck on the side by a vehicle that still had not been found. It had overturned, sliding several meters. The driver was identified as Ezra McMillan, a veteran soldier of the MacGregors, who Soren and Galen had relied on for sensitive assignments. Ezra had been injured but alive when the SUV overturned, and then died of a gunshot wound to his chest.

Soren had gone to Ezra's home that morning to notify his wife, Skye. Ezra and Skye had four children, all under the age of ten. When he stood in her doorway, she accepted the news with the stoic manner of a wife who had understood the inherent dangers of her husband's job and as a mother who had to hold it together for her children. But now, looking more closely at the pictures, the fire in his chest grew hotter. He was struck by the unfairness of it all.

Stefano had been flung out of his seat. The autopsy also confirmed he had been unconscious but alive, and, like Ezra, died of a gunshot wound to the chest. Soren's jaw clenched as he studied Stefano's ashen face in the crime scene photos.

Melisande was the baffling one. She was found outside of the vehicle, laying on her back. The marks on her body indicated she had been dragged face down out of the SUV. She had died of a gunshot wound to the head, unlike Stefano's and Ezra's shot to their chests.

The report brought up more questions he couldn't answer, which only compounded his feeling of powerlessness.

A knock sounded on his door. "Come in," Soren said.

Rowan and Elowine came in and stood in front of Soren's desk and waited. When it came down to discretion and effectiveness, he relied on the two of them.

Soren didn't waste time on small talk. He gave them a summary of the police report. "The police are going to take too long to find out who did this. We need answers now." He stood up from behind his desk. "The two of you have the most contacts outside the family. I want you to quietly ask around."

Soren didn't have to spell it out. He wanted to find out who the killer was and who hired him, and Rowan and Elowine knew how best to obtain this information.

Rowan flipped through the report. "There were two large suitcases and one carry-on bag in the trunk. That seems an appropriate number for two adults, but too few for three." He looked up at Soren. "I have a contact at the airline. I'll call in a favor to run her name through the passenger manifest."

Soren nodded. "Right. She might not have come to Scotland at all."

Elowine scanned the report next to Rowan. "Mrs. Carosi was the only one shot in the head," she observed. "Personal grudge against her? She is Scottish." She paused, thinking. "I have some contacts who would know."

Elowine, like Rowan, grew up in a rough neighborhood of Edinburgh. Her piercing blue eyes only looked more intimidating with her buzzed blond hair, which she had shorn off when she was sixteen and kept because people seemed to respect her more. The oldest of five, she fought her way out of poverty—with iron fists and a mean high kick—and brought her siblings with her. Like many who had to learn to read others for self-preservation, she was made for the MacGregor organization for which diplomacy was preferred but physical aggression was frequently needed to reinforce the rules. Like Rowan, she excelled at both.

Rowan continued to flip the pages. "If the Carosis were the intended target, it makes more sense they would have been killed in Chicago. But it happened here in Edinburgh. And they were riding our SUV which is clearly marked with our logo. What message were they sending?"

Soren nodded with a grim look. "It's possible Galen was the target."

"Or you," Elowine added.

"I've already tripled the security around the mansion," Soren said darkly. "Tripled the guards for Galen whenever he leaves the mansion, and assigned guards to each of my siblings." He stood up and slowly paced. "I don't think any of the other families are stupid enough to come after us." He shook his head. "But there could be a lone wolf trying to prove something. I'll get a meeting with the underbosses."

"And in case it's someone unrelated to our line of business, I'll poke around through my channels," Rowan said.

Soren nodded. "We can't rule anything out yet. See what both of you can find out. Top priority." It was implied that they would have a long leash with which to operate, as long as nothing came back on the MacGregors.

***

Soren sweated his way through the weight machines at the gym. He needed to get out of the house and do something. Could no longer sit at home feeling alternately pissed and worried. He allowed the burning in his muscles and lungs distract him from the thoughts in his head.

He racked the bar and continued to lay face up on the bench, studying the artistic sculpture that hung from the high ceiling. It was completely superfluous for a fitness facility, but it was one of many details that reassured its high-end clientele they were noteworthy people who belonged.

He wondered if he now belonged. Belonged to what, he wasn't sure. Or maybe he still didn't, if he noted such details as a metal sculpture in a gym and wondered about the necessity of it, as opposed to taking it for granted.

"Soren?"

He distantly heard his name being called behind the loud rock music playing in his ear buds.

"Soren!"

He took out his ear buds as he sat up and looked around.

Isla Miller, model and Soren's ex-girlfriend, walked up with a bright smile on her face. She opened her arms and wrapped them around his neck before he could react.

"Isla," he greeted and stood up. She was nearly as tall as his six-feet-one height. He grabbed his towel and wiped his face.

"It's so good to see you," she said as she scanned him appreciatively with big green eyes and swung her long auburn hair. "How've you been?"

It had been two years since they last saw each other. They had dated for six months, after which, he remembered with some discomfort, he ended it with nary an explanation. "I just can't do this anymore," he had said.

With even greater discomfort, he remembered it was right around the time he had kissed Ilaria.

"I'm doing well." It was a non-answer. "How about you?"

"I just landed a cosmetics contract." She grinned. She was beautiful by any standards. When he had first seen her—slim, long-legged, fiery-haired—in a show in Milan, he had walked backstage after the show and invited her to fly to Paris with him that night. He was surprised and pleased to find out she was from Edinburgh. Now, he still thought she was gorgeous, but he felt no spark. What's wrong with me?

"Congratulations," he said, meaning it. "You deserve it."

"Thanks," she said. "It's definitely the highlight of my career." She cleared her throat. "So you seeing anyone?"

"No." He saw no reason to lie.

"Well, uh, I'm in town for a few days." She bit her lip. "Do you want to grab a drink later?"

"I don't think that's a good idea," he hedged.

Her expression fell, and then an impatient look took over. "I know this isn't the best time or place to talk about this, but why did you end it the way you did?" Her face looked determined.

Soren ran a hand through his hair and sighed. He knew she deserved the truth, but he wasn't sure he knew what the truth was.

He took her arm and led her to a corner away from prying ears. "I just…wasn't in the right frame of mind for a relationship."

She gave him an incredulous look. "And you didn't think we should have talked about it? We were together for six months. Didn't I deserve something more than a one-sentence break-up?"

He looked at her for a long beat. "Yes, you deserved more than that. You deserve more than me."

She furrowed her brows. "You still haven't told me the real reason you ended things."

"I developed feelings for someone else." It came out more bluntly than he intended.

Isla stepped backwards, hurt passing over her face. "You cheated on me?"

Soren ran a hand over his face. "I kissed someone. One time. And that's when I ended it with you."

She inhaled. "Did you start seeing her?"

He shook his head. "No, it went nowhere."

"But you had feelings for her," she repeated his words slowly. She studied him. Realization dawned. "Still have feelings for her, apparently."

Soren didn't confirm or deny. Didn't want to get into the sordid details. "I'm sorry it happened the way it did. You deserve better."

She drew herself up and lifted her chin. "Yes, I do." The corner of her mouth quirked up. "She's a lucky woman, even if she doesn't know it yet." She lifted her gym bag off the floor and slung it over her shoulder. "Thanks for telling me the truth. I always thought it was me. But it was you all along." At that, she huffed a laugh.

Soren chuckled wryly. "It was definitely me."

She studied him for another few seconds. "I would say we should keep in touch, but we probably won't. Have a nice life, Soren. Hope everything works out the way you want it."

He wrapped his arms around her. "You too, Isla. I mean it."

Isla gave him one more smile, walked away, and didn't look back.

Sighing with relief and exhaustion, Soren looked at his phone for new text messages. Still nothing. He read back his message to Ilaria.

Soren: Ilaria, you there? Tell me you're okay.

C'mon, Ilaria, please be there.

The typing bubble popped up. His heart hammered in his chest. She was alive.

His eyes were glued to his screen as he watched the bubble pop up, disappear, and pop up again.

Ilaria: Hi Soren, I'm okay.

He let out a whoosh of breath, the relief coursing through him making him dizzy.

Soren: Where are you?

Ilaria: Chicago. I didn't go at the last minute. Food poisoning.

He'd had food poisoning before and it was one of the worst experiences in his life. And he was glad she had been suffering from it, because it had literally saved her life.

He considered responding but stopped. Should I call her? He mentally debated for several seconds then hit the "call" icon.