“And if someone does not give me some information to go on within the next twenty-four hours, I will hang you by your balls. Bring Malia home safely, that is our focus, all the other shit stays outside. Reach out to your personal contacts and business partners. I want word out and people talking.”
When The Omen finishes giving his orders and everyone immediately goes to work, I finally feel like we’re doing what we should’ve been doing all along: scouring the planet to find her.
I have no personal contacts or business partners who would be beneficial in this search. The closest thing is going back to the bureau and using their resources like I did trying to bring down the Olins in the beginning.
The Omen raises a brow when he realizes I’m still lingering in his office. He leans against his desk and crosses his ankles, waiting for me to speak. Asking him for anything makes me an even bigger asshole, since I essentially called him a piece of shit parent not long ago and stormed out of here before I tore into him.
“I want to go to Malia’s condo,” I state.
The Omen offered it to me and there’s no point giving him much else.
He nods once.
“I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”
My mouth opens and closes when I start to ask my next question. I don’t expect him, of all people, to give me what I need when he knows I don’t trust him.
I sigh.
“If you have an updated picture of Malia, I’d like that.”
My gaze drops to the floor and my chest tightens. I hate asking him for shit, let alone showing him how weak I am for his daughter. When I look up again, he’s smiling at me. He fishes out his phone and the one I was given pings in my pocket. Oren had left it with the pile of clothes he brought me. I wasn’t going to question it.
I pull it out and bring up the message The Omen sent me. It’s a photo of Malia in a tight, black tank top that’s cropped above her navel and tight jeans. She’s by herself, thankfully, and the picture is wholesome. Her curls are as wild as the smile on her face, and I can tell she’s oblivious to the picture being taken. Malia looks stunning in the way she always does, equal parts rough and soft that make up who she is: mind, body, and soul.
And she’s mine. She’s always been mine.
“Thanks,” I croak.
Malia’s only been missing two days, but it feels like a lifetime.
“I know you believe everyone should be frantic right now and this isn’t moving fast enough for you,” The Omen says. “You don’t have to trust me, but trust when I say that rushing and panic will lead to mistakes. We’ve handled the street cameras and we’ve gotten Deavers, even if he was a dead end. Now, we broaden our resources and get the word out. I will not gamble with Malia’s.”
I nod, understanding what he’s saying. I don’t have to like it, but this is how we’re going to get her back. This is his show and something he dealt with when my mom went missing. I have to trust he won’t make the same mistakes this time.
12
Malia
I’vebeeninthisdingy basement for God knows how long now. After Elio and Martinez made their appearance, I was injected once more with the drug that swiftly sent me back to sleep. When I woke up, I was alone and no longer tied to the bed. Now I’m sporting a beautiful new anklet that’s secured to the concrete wall. It gives me enough leeway to walk to the bed and the toilet that was magically installed here.
A prison built for a fucking queen, alright.
I snort to myself, plopping my weakened body onto the bed and run my hands over my face. There aren’t any windows down here, so counting days is ineffective; not that it would matter with the number of times I’ve been put under at this point. The plus side is I haven’t seen my mother or Martinez since that first time. Elio comes every once in a while to smirk at me through the bars of my cell.
A proud owner of the new pet he’s hoping to break, and yet he’s not ballsy enough to step into this space with me. I look at my hands and purse my lips at my broken nails, jagged and filthy. Something that would only be acceptable if I’d broken them clawing out someone’s eyes and dirtied them with the blood that followed.
I’d likely suck a cock or two for the luxury of a nail file at this point.
The sound of keys unlocking a door echoes throughout my concrete palace, slow footsteps and mumbled curses follow soon after the heavy door slams shut.
“Oswald,” I purr at the man who comes to a stop at my cage, carrying a plate of food.
“Oscar,” he scoffs.
I shrug, standing as he opens the door to my cell.
“Irrelevant,” I add.