CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY EIGHT

Eli's pov

I followed him.

I didn’t have a choice.

Emilio walked ahead of me, slow and steady, like a man thinking hard.

Maybe he was plotting my death and funeral. How to paint it like an accident.

I swallowed at the thought.

He looked like someone with a storm brewing behind his eyes. His back was straight, his shoulders tight, his fingers flexing open and closed as we made our way down the long hallway to his private study.

The door creaked as he pushed it open.

“In,” he said without turning.

I stepped inside, my nerves rattling in my chest. The air was thick here, smelling of leather, old cigars, and gun oil. The door clicked shut behind me. Locked.

“Sit.”

I sank into the chair by the desk, my throat dry as dust. Emilio moved to the window, looking out over the courtyard. Silent. Brooding.

He said nothing for a long time.

The silence stretched, choking, until finally—

“Where is she?”

His voice sliced the quiet cleanly, like an extremely sharp sword. It was deadly.

“Who?” I asked ca