Page 97 of Virtuous Lies
“I don’t know,” he answers me, putting his phone to his ear again. “Enzo,” he bites down the line. “Trixie has just entered Gabriella’s apartment.” His brow furrows. “No. I’m not at fucking home. If I was, I’d be calling to tell you we have a working girl with a serious fucking headache. I’m on my way. I’ll meet you there.”
We arrive back at our building in twelve minutes. I gave up forcing Panda to keep up with the pace we were moving. I picked him up, tucked him into my arms, and jogged to keep up with Vincent’s full body strides.
“Did Gabriella leave through the front of the building?” Vincent calls out to Lydia as we enter the lobby.
“No, sir,” she rushes out. “But she and another woman set off the emergency exit alarm on the first floor.”
“Did she look injured?” He hits the button to call the elevator.
“Not noticeably.”
We step into the elevator, Lydia watching after us.
“Andre isn’t answering,” Vincent tells me. “I want you to go to our apartm—”
“Absolutely not,” I cut him off. “Andre is my friend. Gabriella is my sister-in-law. Trixie was someone I thought I could trust. Whatever this is, it involves me.”
“Bian—”
“Don’t.” I hold up a hand. “Please, don’t.”
The elevator doors open onto the sub-penthouse, and my breath leaves me.
“Andre!” I scurry forward, dropping to my knees next to his too-still body. I place Panda behind me, and he stays put, pushed up against my back nervously.
Blood surrounds Andre in messy smears. It stains his parted lips and has dried in a river from his forehead over the bridge of his nose.
Vincent drops to his haunches beside me. His ringed fingers push against his pulse. He watches me while he waits.
“Baby…” he starts, but the elevator sounds, and he lifts a gun I didn’t even realize he was holding, aiming it at the entryway.
“Just us.” Enzo’s voice meets my back. “What the fuck happened? Where is Gabbi?”
Vincent stands. “Andre’s dead.”
“What?” I flinch. “No,” I refute his statement. “Someone call an ambulance. He’ll be fine. He’ll be fine,” I repeat.
“Where’s Gabbi?” Enzo presses.
“Baby”—Vincent ignores his boss—“two bullets hit him. One in the heart, one in the head. He’s gone,” he finishes tenderly.
I shake my head. My chin wobbles, and I look at my husband, begging him to do more without finding the strength to actually speak.
Vincent picks up the dog, keeping him away from Andre’s blood.
“Cute,” Leo teases, and I scowl at him.
“Vincent,” I plead, my voice so soft it drops like a pin in the room, the smell of death and hopelessness haunting me.
“You can grieve your driver another time. Someone answer my fucking question. Where is Gabbi?” Enzo yells.
“Andre,” I grit.
“What?” he bites.
“His name is Andre.”
Enzo’s nostrils flare.