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I miss her.

It's only been one night—twenty-two hours—and the penthouse feels like a tomb without her. The bed is too big. The silence is too loud. My hand in the shower this morning wasn't even close to enough. Not after I've had a taste of her fire.

She's staying at her old house. She begged Brick to take her there. And he did, right after he called me.

"She needs some alone time," the bastard explained, like he'd suddenly turned into a fucking therapist. "Something happened with Kelly."

I almost ordered him to drag her back here. Almost sent men to Kelly's house to find out exactly what that bitch said to upset her. But I held back. Barely. Not because I suddenly grew a conscience. No. I held back because I could picture the look on Audra's face if I touched her precious mother-in-law.

So I let her go to that old house. For now.

I doubled the men watching her. If Salazar even breathes in that direction, I'll pull her out of there myself, kicking and screaming if I have to. She can hate me for it. I don't care. As long as she's breathing.

I hit play on the footage again. Watch her slip out of the penthouse, fire alarms blaring behind her. My lips curve despite myself.

Run, little trouble. Get your head straight.

But when you come back—and youwillcome back—I'm done giving you space. You're mine. And I don't lose what's mine.

I console myself that I can bring her back. Right now. I know where she is. Where she sleeps. Where she eats. Who she talks to. Who she avoids. I can walk into that crappy little house she's hiding in—pin her against the wall—and remind her exactly who she belongs to…

Tempting, so fucking tempting. I don't, though. Because as much as it goes against every instinct I have, I understand. She needs time. To process her grief. What happened in the warehouse. Whatever Kelly said to her. No matter how much I just want it all to go away, I have to respect the fact that she's grieving her husband. Even if it means letting her put distance between us. Even if it means I get driven fucking insane because I'm not a patient man. Especially not after I sampled her. That sex was… I still get hard just thinking about it.Her.

How much time does someone need to grieve? I slam my fist against the desk as I think about how much Catarina still means to me, even after three years. Fuck. No! I'm not waiting three fucking years for her to get over that little piece of shit. And what happened to her wanting revenge? I thought we had an understanding?

Thank fuck the search for Salazar and the Collector will keep me busy enough not to think about her every fucking second of the day. I drag a hand through my hair again, tensioncoiling tighter in my chest. I welcome it when my phone rings. Massimo. "Yeah."

"We've got something," he comes straight to the point.

I straighten instantly. "On who?" He needs to be more specific. We're looking for a shitload of people right now.

"The girl," he replies. "And the kid."

A slow, sharp smile pulls at my mouth. Finally.

"About fucking time," I mutter, already moving for the door. "Where's Damiano?"

"On his way to pick her up."

"No," I cut in immediately. "He's not touching her without me."

A pause. Massimo exhales softly on the other end. Amused. Knowing I need the distraction.

"Figured you'd say that." A text dings. "That's the location. Damiano is waiting for you there."

I'm already down the hallway.

Massimo warns, "Gabe." I pause just before stepping into the elevator. "Don't let this turn into something it shouldn't."

My grip tightens around the phone. Too late for that. I need a distraction, and this woman might just be it. She's involved with El Recaudador somehow, and I'll figure out exactly how and why. God help her if she had anything to do with Catarina.

"It already is," I grind out, and hang up.

The elevator doors slide shut. I text Mauro to get a car ready. We only need one, and I only need him. It's just a girl and a kid.

On the way to Damiano's location, I muse that in my current mood it'll be easy to appear like he and the rest of us are on the outs.

Twenty minutes later, the Escalade rolls to a stop in front of a motel that should've been condemned a decade ago. Flickering neon lights with half the letters burned out struggle to spell out what used to beBayshore Atlantic Terrace Executive Suites Inn.If that wasn't preposterous enough, now with the way the lights flicker, they spell: B A TES INN.