TAKE SADIE INSTEAD

My mother screamed when she saw Gregory’s photograph.

Not cried.

Not gasped.

Screamed.

She clutched it against her chest and collapsed into a chair as if somebody had ripped out part of her body.

I stood three feet away.

Watching.

Remembering.

When I was eleven, I fell from a horse and broke my wrist.

Mom had been attending Gregory’s tennis match.

She finished watching before taking me to the emergency room.

When I was seventeen, I came home crying because a boy had humiliated me at prom.

Dad told me to stop being dramatic.

When I graduated college, Gregory had a hangover, so the family left my ceremony early.

But one photograph of Gregory bleeding and suddenly the world had ended.

I hated myself for noticing.

Then Dad grabbed Roman.

“You have to get him back.”

Roman looked down at the hand gripping his jacket.

“Remove your hand.”

Dad obeyed.

“You have men. Security. Whatever connections you have. Find him.”

Roman’s voice remained calm.

“You owe someone eight million dollars.”

Dad stared.

“That’s impossible.”

“Then explain the ransom.”

“I can’t.”

I stepped forward.

“Yes, you can.”

Dad looked at me.

“Who else is involved?”

“Sadie—”

“Stop saying my name like it’s a command.”

That silenced him.

I barely recognized my own voice.

Roman did.

Something in his eyes changed.

Dad sank into his chair.

“The Boston project.”

“What about it?”

He rubbed his face.

“It was failing.”

“How badly?”

“Completely.”

My stomach tightened.

Miller Development had publicly announced that project as ninety percent funded.

Dad continued.

“I needed capital. Banks wouldn’t lend against it, so I accepted private money.”

“From Roman?”

“First.”

Roman’s expression darkened.

“First?”

Dad nodded.

“Then someone offered more.”

“Who?”

“Victor Hale.”

Roman went still.

The room changed.

I looked between them.

“Who is Victor Hale?”

Roman answered.

“A man who doesn’t lend money.”

Dad laughed bitterly.

“He did to me.”

“No. Hale buys people’s desperation.”

Roman approached the desk.

“What did you promise him?”

Dad hesitated.

“Thomas.”

“Access.”

“To what?”

“Municipal bids. Land acquisitions. Information.”

Roman’s jaw tightened.

Miller Development worked on major commercial projects throughout Connecticut and Massachusetts. Advance knowledge of zoning decisions and acquisitions could be worth millions.

“You sold confidential information,” I whispered.

“I was trying to save the company.”

“You keep calling everything you destroy ‘saving.’”

His eyes hardened.

“You wouldn’t understand.”

I laughed.

It surprised both of us.

“I understand your company better than Gregory does.”

“This is not about Gregory.”

“It has always been about Gregory.”

Mom looked at me.

“Sadie, please.”

I turned toward her.

“Please what?”

Her lips trembled.

“Help us bring your brother home.”

There it was.

Not Are you okay?

Not Roman is bleeding because someone shot through our window.

Help Gregory.

I looked at the photograph again.

And despite everything, my heart hurt.

Because Gregory was still my brother.

He had laughed when his friends mocked me.

He had accepted everything Dad handed him.

But he was also the eight-year-old who once crawled into my bed during thunderstorms.

The twelve-year-old who cried when our dog died.

The sixteen-year-old who secretly drove twenty miles to bring me home after my date abandoned me at a restaurant.

People were rarely only one thing.

“I’ll help.”

Roman looked at me sharply.

Dad exhaled.

“But not for you.”

His relief disappeared.

“I’m helping Gregory because nobody deserves to die for your choices.”

Roman’s men began working immediately.

Victor Hale owned warehouses, shipping companies, nightclubs, and enough legitimate businesses to hide whatever happened beneath them.

Roman knew his organization.

More importantly, he knew Hale.

They had once been allies.

Until Hale had ordered the killing of Roman’s older brother.

Roman told me that in the SUV.

Nothing more.

I didn’t ask.

At midnight we returned to Roman’s estate.

He refused medical treatment until Elena threatened to call the doctor herself.

I found him later in the kitchen, attempting to replace the dressing on his shoulder one-handed.

“You’re terrible at that.”

He looked up.

“I’ve survived.”

“That’s not the same as being good at it.”

I took the bandage.

He hesitated.

Then removed his shirt.

I forgot every number I had ever learned.

Ink covered his shoulder and chest.

Scars crossed his ribs.

One particularly long scar disappeared beneath his left arm.

I forced myself to focus on the wound.

“Does that hurt?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t look like it.”

“I’m trying to impress you.”

I looked at him.

He was teasing me.

Roman Costa was teasing me.

I smiled despite myself.

“That would require smiling occasionally.”

“I smiled yesterday.”

“That was indigestion.”

He laughed.

A real laugh.

Deep and brief and startling.

Then our eyes met.

The kitchen became quiet.

I taped the fresh dressing into place.

His gaze dropped to my mouth.

My heartbeat changed.

Roman noticed.

Of course he did.

His hand lifted slowly.

He tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

No man had ever touched me so carefully.

I stopped breathing.

Then his phone rang.

Roman closed his eyes.

I laughed nervously and stepped back.

He answered.

The softness disappeared immediately.

“What?”

A pause.

“Send it.”

His phone buzzed.

Roman opened an image.

It was another photograph of Gregory.

This time, my brother was holding a newspaper.

Proof he was alive.

But something else was visible behind him.

A wall.

Red brick.

A faded blue logo.

I leaned closer.

“Wait.”

Roman enlarged the image.

“What?”

“That symbol.”

“You recognize it?”

I nodded.

“Miller Development owned a warehouse with that logo years ago.”

“Where?”

“New Haven.”

Roman called his men.

Within minutes, vehicles were moving.

I grabbed my coat.

“No.”

I looked at him.

“I’m coming.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You wouldn’t know which warehouse.”

“Give me the address.”

“There were four.”

His jaw tightened.

“I can identify it.”

“Sadie.”

“My brother is in there.”

“And whoever took him shot through your parents’ house tonight.”

“I know.”

Roman stepped close.

“That’s exactly why you’re staying.”

Something in me flared.

“No.”

His eyebrows rose.

I pointed at him.

“My father controlled where I worked. My mother controlled what I wore. Gregory controlled whether I existed in a room. You do not get to become the next man who decides what I’m allowed to do.”

Roman stared at me.

For a long moment, neither of us moved.

Then he nodded once.

“You’re right.”

I blinked.

That easy?

“But you wear a vest.”

He handed me a protective vest.

“And you stay beside me.”

I took it.

“Fine.”

Thirty-five minutes later, we reached the warehouse.