“I don’t need a full translation,” I reply dryly. “Are they going to let us in, or not?”
E calls out to the man and I think he’s going to be mad when he grumbles and walks away. I have no clue if it’s good until E smiles.
“Well, he’s calling my dad, but he’s not in the country. He’ll probably tell them to kick us out as soon as he hears, though. Let’s move.”
Without waiting to be told twice, I follow my pet into the house behind the young guard. It usually grates on me, especially from a sub, but I don’t mind him taking the lead in this. I like to be in control of all things, but he knows the way to his father’s office where I want to try and find any information that could lead us to a location where Di might be held.
Still, I keep my head on a swivel, taking in the gaudy art that would look more suited to a medieval British castle than a house in Cuba. There’s even a suit of arms and stone walls covered in tapestries. What must it have been like to grow up here?
This was E’s home at some points of his childhood. I can learn more about him while also gathering information. Two birds, one stone.
Chapter seventeen
E
Thefactthattheguards let me in comes as a surprise, even though our plan hinges on access. I don’t know what I thought would happen if we were turned away, but I do know the best way to sneak onto the property without permission. If my dad hasn’t had it fixed yet.
When I tried getting into our Manhattan brownstone where my stuff is, or the Hamptons house, I’d been told I was cut off completely, including access to my belongings. I was mostly pissed about the cost of getting to these locations, but a guard in Manhattan took pity on me and gave me the backpack I had hidden in my closet with cash and important documents.
Dad didn’t like California, always complaining about the taxes, so I decided to go there for a clean break. My cell phone was the same, but my father had blocked my number, so I took it as a sign he took care of every way I might get into his properties.
The fact that the Cuban staff hasn’t been told yet, means my dad isn’t here. I let out a sigh of relief as Ignacio drops us off in front of mybedroom on the third floor and tells us that we shouldn’t hang around long.
Opening the door to my room, I watch Ignacio disappear down the hall to the grand staircase. He’ll probably wait inside the door so he knows when we go to leave.
When he’s out of sight, I turn to Mac, whispering, “Wait a beat. There’s a back stairwell for staff.”
“Cameras?” Mac asks over the sound of Ignacio’s retreating steps.
“Everywhere,” I confirm. “Assume he’s watching our every step.”
When the guards snitched to my dad that I was sneaking down to the kitchen using the employee access, he banned me from using them. That’s when he started locking me in my room, so I hadn’t gone against his wishes many times. This time, I don’t plan on coming back. Fuck his rules.
Leading Mac down the hall, our steps are cushioned by the Persian rug. The back stairs are more narrow than the main ones, but they don’t have pictures or decorations to bump into as we slink down them silently.
My dad’s office and bedroom suite take up a large portion of the second floor on this wing, and I had to be careful how I stepped since my bedroom was right above the office. Reaching the door, I find it closed and locked.
Well, shit.
“You don’t happen to have a hair pin or paperclip, do you?” I ask. I know how to pick a lock, but I don’t carry the necessary tools on me.
“No. Something better.” Mac shakes his head and steps closer, pulling a thin, black leather case. He opens it to reveal a lock-pickingkit. “But glad to know I can’t lock you up with any possible tools nearby.”
“Aren’t you a boy scout,” I tease, watching him work. “And I could have broken out of the cuffs, if I really wanted to,” I admit and catch my breath. I’m not sure if it’s the adrenaline running through my veins that has me telling him a truth I didn’t even admit to myself, but here we are.
Mac stands to his full height, staring me down. “Is that so?”
In for a penny, in for a pound, as one of my nannies used to say.
“You left me alone for hours, sometimes with a fork for food.” My point doesn’t change the lack of expression on his face, so I add, “And the TV is connected to the internet. I could have contacted people easily.”
“And tell them what? You’re locked in the guest host of a Hollywood talk show host. That I’m a serial killer? People would think you’re a troll looking for attention.”
My shoulders sag at the realization he’s right. Mac knew exactly what he left me with. “Was it a test?”
“To some extent,” Mac tells me before reaching out to the door handle. It clicks open and I realize we’ve been wasting time standing there.
Pushing past him, I walk into the dark room and freeze. Mac runs into my back and he must turn on the light. The person I thought was standing at the window is a coat rack.