Chapter 45

Gabriel

When I discovered Sofia was gone, my first thought was to pursue her (after allowing her a few hours to rest and see her grandfather—she must be exhausted after everything)—then bring her home. If she refused to return willingly, I considered… other measures. All those plans were scrapped when I returned home, after instructing my assistant to manage things at work for a few more days and Peter—the utterly useless Peter—to provide hourly updates. I was about to ask the driver to start the car for the trip to my wife’s hometown to retrieve her when the doorbell rang.

I answered the door myself, eyebrows furrowed. I rarely had visitors, and a part of me hoped it was my wife.

It wasn't.

The man standing there was nothing like the woman I longed to see. The six-foot-something figure stared at me, appearing more muscular than the last time I'd seen him. His rolled-up white shirt revealed more tattoos on his arms, and a smug smile played on his lips as he entered uninvited, as if he owned the place.

"What the f*ck are you doing here?" I growled, a mixture of disbelief and anger.

"I was offended at not being invited to the wedding." The smile widened.

"And I was offended when you changed your last name and disappeared." I'm usually cold, not short-tempered, but something about him made me want to punch him.

"Well, Whitlock was too long and not powerful enough," he said, unfazed by my glare. "King, however… seems more appropriate."

I punched him. I stepped forward and connected my fist with his jaw, his head snapping to the side. He didn't even try to dodge it, the b*stard.

The smirk remained, even as blood trickled from a cut on his lip. "I missed you too, big bro."

Then I punched him again.

Damien King was the Whitlock family's best-kept secret. My parents found him when I was barely three. He was a one-year-old who clung to my mother. They adopted him.

The social worker had little information about his family, only that they were dead; he'd been found amidst their blood at three months old.

Damien Whitlock became my brother. I was logical; he was strategic. I was cold; he was ruthless. I learned to build within our family's company; Damien learned to destroy—anything and everything in his path. I provided for him. I protected him. I took the blame for him. But after three "accidental" school fires—conveniently timed to avoid classes—my parents and grandparents realized he was a psychopath and sent him to boarding school.

Later, we discovered he was on a path I couldn't pull him back from. We lost him completely when he reached adulthood. His existence became a secret. His calls became infrequent, his visits rarer still, and he vanished two years ago. Even the best investigators came up empty—he'd changed his name and didn't want to be found.

Damien Whitlock had climbed the mafia ranks. Damien King led it at twenty-six.

I was wary of the man who'd shown up at my doorstep demanding to meet my wife, and even warier of helping him. He said, "I need your help." No please. No begging. No request.

I wanted to refuse outright. But I couldn't. He was my brother. Always would be. My only condition was that he stay in touch—completely dismissing his claim that he'd kept his distance to protect me.

My second mistake was agreeing to help Damien. My first was letting Freckles leave.

I left my wife in her hometown with her ex—or ex-best friend, or whoever he was—for five days. Five f*cking days.

"A heads-up would have been nice, considering you kidnapped me and planned to keep me for a week," Zach commented dryly, half-asleep. "Anna worries."

"I didn't need you," Damien replied, disinterested. "But apparently, I'm not enough company for my brother."

"I didn't trust you not to murder me and throw me in a ditch," I joked, swirling my whiskey as we returned from Italy on the sixth f*cking day.

Damien blinked. "I'm hurt you think so poorly of me."

"I think even more poorly," I said.

My adopted brother chuckled. "Since when do you drink?"

"Since you took me to Italy and I had to leave my wife with her f*cking ex," I glared.

This time, his chuckle became laughter. He ran a hand through his messy black hair and turned to Zach. "If I ever do something that messed up for a girl, throw a toaster at my head!"

"Don't talk to that f*cker," I said, pointing at Zach, my eyes on Damien. "He's whipped."

"You guys are lame," Damien leaned back in his chair in the small bar on my jet. "Do I get to meet her?"

"My Freckles?" My eyebrows furrowed. "No way."

"Too scared she'll fall for my charms?"

"Nah," I smirked. "Just want your bloody hands off her."

He shook his head. "She's my sister-in-law. She deserves to know about my existence."

"She won't be your sister-in-law for long. Barely three and a half months more," Zach teased, lifting his sleeping mask.

"F*cker!" I threw a metal drink mixer at him. He barely dodged it, flipping me off.

As if I'd let her go.

As if I wouldn't search the world and then glue her ass where it belongs—by my side.