Daddy’s Orders (Silver Fox Daddies)

“Something wrong, Mr. Stone?”

Where the hell was she?

John Lyman, the billionaire real estate mogul whose account my company managed, stood before me with a curious expression on his face. No doubt he’d noticed that my attention was elsewhere. I’d been trying to spot Emily in the crowd during my conversation but couldn’t find her.

“Sorry, John,” I said. “Just looking for my date, worried she’s getting bored.”

The smile returned to his face. “I saw her, such a gorgeous young woman. I don’t want to pry, Logan, but I couldn’t help but notice the way you two looked at one another when you arrived. Is she more than just one of the many models I’ve seen hanging on your arm over the years?”

I chuckled at how obvious I was being. “You know, she just might be.”

“In that case, go find her. I won’t keep you any longer.”

“Let’s set something up for this Monday at nine-thirty,” I said. “On Zoom. I want to make sure we’re on the same page for the next quarter.”

“Perfect. Have fun, Logan.”

John reached over and patted the side of my arm, offering one last warm smile before rejoining the crowd. Marianne was easy enough to spot, her tall, slender figure zipping from here to there as she eagerly explained her work to the many guests.

But Emily was another story. I scanned the place top to bottom, not finding her anywhere. Minutes passed, too many of them. Roberto was posted near the entrance, and I sidled through the crowd to him.

“Have you seen Emily?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Was just looking for her. Haven’t spotted her for ten minutes. I asked Marianne to run into the ladies’ room to see if she was in there.”

Tension gripped my gut. “What about outside? Any chance she stepped out?”

“Got my boys out there, they would’ve seen her.”

“Something’s wrong.”

He pursed his lips, nodding slowly. “Yeah.”

“Call the guys in. We’ll take a pass through the gallery, see if we can spot her.”

“Got it. We’ll meet here in five minutes.”

Without another word, we broke and moved through the gallery, Roberto taking the right and me taking the left. I hurried as quickly as I could without attracting attention, not wanting anyone to get the sense that something was wrong.

Halfway through my scan, I spotted something on the ground in front of Marianne’s beachfront picture—Emily’s white clutch. I picked it up and looked around.

She was gone. There was no doubt in my mind.

I made my way back to the entrance, Roberto waiting for me. He shook his head as I approached.

“Something happened,” I said. “We need to move—now.”

“Fucking hell,” he growled under his breath. “What about Marianne and Pearl?”

“Bring the guys in here, tell them to guard them with their lives. You and I are going to find Emily.”

“Got it.”

Roberto made a call, Renaldo and Edgar joining us inside in less than a minute. After explaining the situation to the pair, we were out and in one of the SUVs.

“What the fuck, Roberto!” I shouted. “How did this happen?”

“My fault. Should’ve been keeping a closer eye on her. But… goddamn, how did they get in? We were checking everyone.”

I sighed, knowing that getting pissed at Roberto wouldn’t solve anything.

“I’m sure you were on top of it. Just… fuck!”

“Could be someone on the inside,” he said. “Someone working in the gallery.”

“Doesn’t matter,” I replied. “What does is figuring out where the hell she is. No doubt at all that Charles had something to do with this.”

“My thoughts exactly. And I know just where to go.”

“You do? Where?”

“The boys and I did some research on that prick. Found out that he owns a townhouse in Williamsburg.”

“Then drive.”

Roberto put the townhome’s address into the GPS, the readout letting us know it was only twenty minutes away. Rage built in me more with each minute we drove. My mind raced with horrific images of what he might do with her. Would he beat her? Kill her? Finally sell her off to the highest bidder, as she’d been intended?

Either way, there was no doubt in my mind that if we didn’t get her back quickly, I’d never see her again.

We crossed over the Brooklyn Bridge and into Williamsburg, making our way into the neighborhood. A few minutes later, we pulled to a stop.

“That one right there,” Roberto said, pointing ahead. “See that run-down townhome?”

Two cars were parked in front of the building—one a black van, the other a gaudy, white sports car.

“Bet you anything those are his,” I said, nodding toward the vehicles.

“I’d take that bet.” Roberto reached over and opened the glove compartment. Inside were two pistols, both Glock 17s.

I took one out, checking the clip and getting a feel for it.

I passed the other to Roberto.

“Let’s move.”