Page 90 of The Ache That Stayed

The guard at the manor gate recognised me instantly and perked up.

“Where is she?” I asked through gritted teeth.

“She didn’t come to site today,” he said, Irish lilt cutting through the rain.

My stomach dropped hard enough to hurt. My mind spun, round and round. For a second, every possibility arrived at once.

Where could she be?

I immediately called Ritu.

“To what do I owe this call?” she asked.

“Where’s Roxanne?”

“Didn’t she come back? We went to an art gallery earlier, and I left her there.”

“Send me the location. Now.”

I hung up before she could say anything. My jaw locked. I was at my wits’ end. I tried calling Roxanne again. Then sent out a text.

I turned back to the car and my phone dinged. My heart skipped a beat. For a second I thought it was her. It wasn’t.

Ritu had sent the location.

The gallery was an hour and a half drive from the manor. I drove toward it, every inch of me vibrating with a sick cocktail of worry and fury. The rain slammed the windshield, wind howling like a feral wolf.

The street where the gallery was located was empty. Like the storm had swallowed everything alive and left the street behind like a ghost town. The gallery was shut. Dark.

What did I expect? That she’d be waiting with bated breath for over four hours? I tried calling again. Still no answer.

I tapped the steering wheel once. Twice.

“You gave me no choice, Volpi.”

I pulled out my phone and opened the app. I’d discreetly installed the app on her phone after dropping her home on Halloween. Not because I wanted to control her. Because the world was full of men worse than me. I never thought I’d have to use it. I’d planned on being around her—always.

Her location flickered on the screen. She was close.

So where the hell was she?

I furrowed my brows, punched in the coordinates and headed to her.

“You better be there, Volpi. And better have a good reason too…” I muttered under my breath before moving.

“... or I’m gonna rip this town apart.”

CHAPTER 23

Santino

The motel glowed in a warm yellow hue. The wooden furniture looked worn smooth, with a half-empty bar tucked to one corner. A handful of people scattered inside, stranded by the storm.

And then I saw her. Relief hit first—sharp, immediate. She was safe. Alive. Curled on a stool at the bar, cardigan slipping off one shoulder, hair messy in that effortless way that made my chest tighten and piss me off instantly. A half-finished drink in her hand.

And she was smiling.

At the damn bartender.