“Good morning, Mr. Decker,” a young man dressed in a standard hotel polo and slacks greets me cheerily. “Where would you like me to set your breakfast?”

I motion him inside with my hand and shrug. “Wherever. The bed is fine.”

He lowers the tray on top of the comforter then turns around and hands me the charge slip to sign. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

Scribbling my name along the bottom line after I add in the tip, I shake my head and mutter under my breath, “Not unless you can tell me where I can find Vincent Ricci.”

I don’t intend for him to hear the remark, and I especially don’t expect him to answer me, but as I hand over the leather bill folder, he tilts his chin with curiosity and looks me straight in the eye. “Are you serious? Do you really want to know where to find him?”

“E-e-excuse me?” I stutter, feeling my eyes grow wide with disbelief. “Do you really know where he is?”

The kid, who’s probably in his early twenties, nods nervously. “Well, I don’t know exactly where he is, but a friend of mine used to work at this shop over on the south side of town, a place that sells aftermarket car stuff, and he said Vincent and his boys hang out there a lot. I’m not sure if he owns it or what, but Nick mentioned him a few times. Maybe you could try . . .”

“Yes!” I exclaim, mentally berating myself for not thinking of this before. Of course the guy would have other businesses, probably to launder mafia money through. I was so caught up in retracing Blake’s life yesterday—running into dead end after dead end—that I failed to take a step back and look at the bigger picture. “What’s the name of the place?”

“Capo Car Creations. It’s on Northcutt Avenue, but be careful, man,” he warns. “Those aren’t the kinds of people you want to go looking for trouble with.”

Waving him off, I pad across the carpet to the nightstand and pull a hundred dollar bill out of my wallet. “Yeah, no worries. I know exactly who they are,” I reply, shoving the additional tip in his hand. “Thanks for the info. I really appreciate it.”

For a split second, he stares hesitantly down at the cash then smartly shoves it into his pocket. “Anytime, Mr. Decker. Let me know if you need anything else.”

He gives me a quick nod before turning around to leave the room. Thirty minutes later, after I’ve picked at my breakfast, showered, and dressed for the day, I’m climbing into the backseat of a taxi with a ball of nervous energy bouncing around in my gut. I’ve got only one destination in mind.

“Capo Car Creations. 819 Northcutt Avenue.”

A bell tied to the glass door leading into the shop chimes loudly as I step inside, announcing my presence. A group of three guys dressed in navy mechanic coveralls are huddled around the register area in what seems like a deep conversation, and after a quick glance in my direction, they all turn right back around, assuming I’m just a regular customer.

To not build suspicions right off the bat, I meander up and down the aisles for a little while, pretending to check out the various car stereo accessories on display. I try a couple of times to eavesdrop on their discussion that seems to be growing more intense by the moment, but each time I draw near the front of the store, they lower their voices to a whisper.

After the only other customer in the store pays for his purchases and leaves, I decide to make my move before anyone else comes in. As I approach the men, I ball my hands into tight fists by my sides then release them, over and over, as I attempt to reign in the frenzied adrenaline surging through me.

“Can I help you find something you’re looking for?” the tallest of the trio asks casually while the other two step off to the side, still engrossed in their heated conversation. According to the patch sewn on his shirt, his name is Tony.

Clearing my throat, I nod. “Yeah, actually, I think you can. I’m looking for Vincent Ricci. Is he here today?”

The moment I say his name, an eerie silence falls over the place, and three sets of cagey brown eyes are fixed directly on me. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear there’s a red laser beam pointed directly in the center of my forehead.

Tony slams his hands down on the counter and leans toward me, his brow pinched together with clear suspicion. “Who’s asking?”

“I am,” I answer, stepping closer to him. My heart is beating wildly in my chest, but I refuse to let this guy intimidate me. “Madden Decker.”

In a blur of action, the next thing I know, one of the other men is behind me with one brawny arm wrapped around my neck and the other holding a switchblade to my throat. “What the fuck are you doing here?” he growls in my ear. “You must be as stupid as that little cunt of a girlfriend you got.”

The hold he’s got on my neck is so tight I’m unable to speak, but I don’t think he really wants an answer anyway. With a shit-eating grin on his face, Tony strolls around from behind the counter and gets right up in my face, while their other friend flanks his right side.

“Madden Fucking Decker,” he sneers. “I’ve heard a lot about you in the last few days. Seems we may owe you a thank you for bringing our attention to where our little American Princess has been hanging out lately. You know, we’ve been looking for that little bitch for quite a while now, and to think, the whole time she’s been playing house with you in your fancy California home, living the fuckin’ life, all while one of our brothers rots in the ground.”

The cold metal of the knife disappears, but before my brain can register the movement, Tony punches me in the stomach. Harder than I’ve ever been hit before. “All.” He swings again, and I grunt at the white-hot pain burning in my gut. “Because.” Another blow. “Of.” And again. “Her.” With the final strike, the man behind me releases my neck and violently shoves me down to the ground.

On my hands and knees, my chest heaves up and down rapidly as my lungs absorb every ounce of oxygen they can get. The throbbing in my midsection is excruciating, and I’m not sure I’ll be able to stand on my own, but that doesn’t keep me from trying. The physical pain is nothing compared to the anguish I’ve felt since Blake disappeared.

Using all my might, I push off the tiled floor so I’m on my knees, and just as I’m about to attempt to rise to my feet, the bottom of Tony’s shoe meets the side of my face, knocking me back down. All I can taste is blood.

“Don’t you worry, pretty boy.” He squats next to me, grabbing the back of my hair and jerking my neck sideways so I’m looking at him. I fight the urge to spit in his face, to tell him what a piece of shit he is. Taking in everything about these people could be the key to finding her. “I know you think you’re about to die, but that’s not gonna happen just yet. First, I want you to witness what we do to her once we bring her home. It’ll make anything Ish ever did look like child’s play. I hope you don’t have a weak stomach.”

With an evil laugh, he rams my face back into the ground, my nose crunching on impact. “Take him to the back,” he orders, but before anyone picks up my limp body, the sound of the bell echoes through the room just before I hear someone shout, “Nobody move or I’ll shoot! FBI!”

“WHAT DO YOU LIKE TO eat?”

Peering up from the adult comic book—the one completely in Russian with a lot of scantily-dressed cartoon women that I’ve been making up my own story to—I stare blankly at Raze, who’s leaning against the doorframe between the living room and the bedroom, not sure I heard him correctly. “What did you say?”

Chuckling, he shakes his head and strides over to ‘his’ chair, carrying a pad of paper and a pen. “I asked what you like to eat. One of my men will be dropping off food and supplies this afternoon, and I wanted to make sure I got some things you like. It appears we’re going to be here a while longer than I originally expected.”