Chapter 22 The search
JEREMY
"This is Santoro. I need you to find someone."
"Mr Santoro." Vincent Russo's voice came through immediately—my family's preferred private investigator, the man who'd tracked down everything from missing shipments to missing persons. "What do you need?"
"A girl. Eighteen. Blind. Name's Amelia. Last seen three days ago outside a bar called Crimson in the Bowery."
... "Blind?"
"Yes. She had a white cane and dark hair and was probably terrified out of her mind. She was..." I stopped. What was she? An employee? A victim? Something I couldn't define? "She needs to be found. Now."
"Any idea where she might have gone?"
"If I knew that, I wouldn't be calling you." I forced my voice to level out. Getting angry at Vincent wouldn't help. "Check shelters, hospitals, anywhere a homeless blind girl might end up. Discreetly."
"Understood. I'll need a photo—"
"I don't have one." Cristo, I didn't even know her last name. "Just find her. Use whatever resources you need. Money's not an issue."
"I'll start immediately. I'll update you within twenty-four hours."
I ended the call and leaned back against the leather seat. "Home," I said to the driver.
But as we pulled away from Crimson, I couldn't shake the image of Amelia being thrown out onto the street. Hurt. Alone. Blind for three days.
Anything could have happened in three days.
Twenty-four hours later, Vincent called back with nothing.
"I've checked every shelter within a five-mile radius," he reported. "Hospital intake records, police reports, even the mortuary. No one matches her description."
The mortuary. Christo
"Keep looking."
"Mr Santoro, without more information—"
"Then get more information. Talk to people on the street. Someone must have seen her. A blind girl doesn't just disappear."
"I'll expand the search radius."
But another day passed. Then another. No leads. No sightings. Nothing.
She'd vanished.
Three days after leaving Crimson, I sat in my father's study for a meeting about the Volkov situation. My mind was elsewhere.
"Jeremy." My father's voice cut through my thoughts. "Are you listening?"
"Yes."
"Then what did I just say?"
I hadn't heard a word. "You were discussing the warehouse on Pier 40."
"That was ten minutes ago." My father's eyes narrowed. "What's wrong with you? You've been distracted for days."
"Nothing. I'm fine."
"He's not fine," Antonio said from his chair by the window, that familiar smirk on his face. "He's obsessed. With some blind whore from Marco's bar."
My hands clenched into fists. "Watch your mouth."
"Or what?" Antonio leaned forward. "You'll hit me? Your uncle? In front of your father?" He shook his head. "See, Dominic? This is what I mean. He's letting a girl distract him from Family business."
"She's not—" I stopped. Because what could I say? Could I honestly say she wasn't a distraction? That would be a lie." It's handled."
"Is it?" My father's voice was cold. "Because Antonio's right. You've been unfocused since the Volkov incident. You have been missing meetings, making calls at odd hours, and asking our investigator to find a girl instead of tracking down our enemies.
"Vincent can do both."
"That's not the point." My father stood and walked to his desk. "The point is priorities, Jeremy. Family comes first. Business comes first. Not some girl you barely know."
I met his eyes. "I know that."
"Do you?" He asked and studied me for a long moment. "From my perspective, it seems that you are repeating the same mistake your mother made." Getting attached. Caring too much about someone who can't help us, can't strengthen us, can't benefit the Family."
My mother. My mother had been dead for fifteen years because she tried to help a friend escape an abusive husband, who was connected to the Moranos. The fallout had been bloody.
"This is different," I said quietly.
"Is it?" My father returned to his seat. "Then prove it. Focus on what matters. The Volkovs are planning retaliation for the warehouse hit. We need everyone to be sharp and committed. I can't have you distracted by a girl who's probably already dead in a gutter somewhere."
The words hit like a physical blow.
Dead in a gutter.
"Get out," my father said. "Both of you. I need to think."
Antonio stood up smoothly. "Come on, nephew. Let's get a drink."
"I'd rather eat glass." I hissed and walked past him
His laugh followed me out of the study.
That night, I went back to Crimson.
Marco looked up from his ledger when I walked into his office. "Santoro. Didn't expect to see you again so soon."
"Any word on her?"
"No. And before you ask, I'm not looking. She left; she's gone, that's the end of it."
I leaned against his desk. "The girls who threw her out. I want their names."
"You already know the main one. Jade."
"All of them."
Marco sighed. "Jade, Ashley, Carmen, Beth, Trina. But beating up my staff isn't going to bring your girl back."
"She's not my—" I stopped. "I'm not going to touch them. I just want to know who was involved."
"Why? "Are you planning revenge on behalf of a girl you met twice?"
"Three times," I corrected. "I pulled her out of the Volkov ambush."
Marco's eyebrows rose. "That was her? The blind civilian?"
"Yeah."
"Cristo." He set down his pen. "And she ended up here? That's..." He shook his head. "That's shit luck."
"It's my fault. I should have made sure she was okay. I should have given her money and found her a safe place to stay. Instead, I just left her."
"You're a made man, Santoro. Not a social worker."
"I know what I am."
"Do you?" Marco studied me. "Because you're acting like someone who cares. And in our world, caring gets people killed."
"I've heard that enough."
"Then maybe you should listen." He picked up his pen again. "She's gone, Jeremy. She probably left the city and found somewhere safer. Let her go."
But I couldn't.
That was the problem.
A week after Amelia disappeared, Vincent finally had something.
"I talked to a waitress at a diner three blocks from Crimson," he reported. "She remembers seeing a blind girl around the time frame you mentioned. The waitress said the girl looked beaten up and scared. The waitress's name is Elena Rodriguez."
My heart kicked. "Did Elena know where she went?"
"She wouldn't say. She got nervous when I started asking questions. But..." He hesitated. "I got the impression she knows more than she's telling."
"Her address."
"Mr Santoro, I don't think—"
"Address. Now." I interrupted his advice.
He gave it to me hesitantly.