Page 5 of Brox Boar

My cell buzzes in my hand again. An Italian number flashes up. I swear under breath and hit decline with far more force than necessary. “Not now.”

“Answer it,” Brox stares at me.

“I’m not in the mood for Alessio’s uncles.”

“Answer. It.” His voice comes out low. “I don’t like unanswered calls when our pet is missing.” He jabs a finger toward my cell. “Pick it up next time.”

“Fine.” I drag in a breath that doesn’t do much to steady me. “I’m calling Sol.”

“CCTV,” Brox says instantly. “She couldn’t have just vanished.”

“Exactly.” I agree and hit Sol’s name. It rings twice before he picks up.

“Yeah?”

“Where are you?” I ask.

“Your office. Going through last night’s numbers.”

“Get in front of the monitors,” I say. “I need footage pulled from the penthouse cameras. Today.”

There’s a pause. “Something wrong?”

“Lana’s not here,” I say. The words taste foul in my mouth. “We came back from Waddington’s. She’s gone. No note. Her cell is off. I want to see when she left.”

His tone changes instantly. “On it. You coming down or you want me to send it up?”

“We’re coming,” I say. “Pull CCTV from the penthouse corridors, elevator and main entrance too. Last few hours. From when we left until now.”

“Got it.”

I end the call and look at Brox. He’s standing in the middle of the living room, cell loose in his hand, his jaw set.

“Let’s go downstairs,” I say.

He nods. “Yeah.”

We move fast now, and head for the elevator. My stride is longer, my breathing steady only because I force it to be.

I press the elevator button harder than needed. The doors slide open with a soft chime that grates on my nerves.

The mirrored walls throw our images back at us as we step in, two men in suits, both tense, both looking like they’re walking into a fight.

The lift descends, and the floors slip by. My mind races ahead-if she left of her own free will, she would have used the elevator. She wouldn’t know about service stairs.

If someone took her–

I slam that thought down before it finishes forming. No one gets past our security. Especially not after what happened to her last year.

The lift doors open onto the corridor outside our office and the boardroom. Music is absent for now; the sound system rests between nights.

The office door stands open. Inside, monitors glow against the dim, showing multiple angles of the club. The bar, the entrance, the dance floor, now empty and scrubbed clean.

Sol sits in my chair, headset around his neck, eyes flicking between screens. When he sees us, he shoots up on his feet, but I motion for him to continue doing what he was doing.

“I’ve got the penthouse feeds up,” he says as he sits down. “You left at ten this morning, right?”

“Ten-oh-six,” Brox says. “She was still sleeping.”