Arabella Malik, the lethal American mob boss's daughter.
The beauty of the nineteen-year-old was well-known. Her hourglass figure and glowing grey eyes-which mirrored her father's, had practically everyone praising the ground she walked on.
Arabella...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
✰ ＴｈｉｒｄＰｅｒｓｏｎＰＯＶ ✰
"𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧"
Landon paced back and forth, black locks rugged from the ruthless tugs he made to it. Layla sat in the chair, her eyes red and cheeks blotchy from the crying.
"There are two fucking teams working on her location, how fucking hard is it!?" He cursed into the phone, endless anger pouring through his veins.
The man on the other line shook with fear, rushing his colleagues to find the missing girl. "We're trying sir, they keep moving her around New York. Her current location is still unidentifiable."
Groaning, Landon hung up—mentally over the bullshit they were spewing at him. His daughter was missing, and he wasn't wasting any time.
"Anything?" Layla asked, looking up at Landon with hopeful eyes. Emotionlessly, he stared down at her and shook his head. Lifting a single arm, she immediately wrapped her arms around his waist.
"Fuck, I'm scared Landon," She cried into his chest, his hand rubbing up and down her back soothingly. "I know, love."
He brought his hand to her cheek, cupping it as he brushed the tears away with a single thumb. "We'll find her," pressing his lips to her cheek, "I'll make sure of it."
Embracing each other, Nicolo on the other hand wasn't taking the kidnapping as well as the others—well whatever 'well' meant to the endless stress and anxiety everyone consumed.
His unprotected fists punched mercilessly to the black punching bag. Eyes tired and dead, expression emotionless like his fathers. Nicolo has only ever been like this once. It was when Arabella broke her arm when they were eight, falling off the trampoline.
Nicolo couldn't see her for three days, and he was devastated. At one point he thought the girl died, though his mother confirmed many times that she had only fractured her arm.
Knowing his twin was in danger or in any sort of harm immediately brought him ill. Mentally and physically, ill.
Sweat dripped from his body, clinging onto his skin like hot droplets of water. His arms flexed with every hit, his fists bruising—though never faltering.
He felt hopeless. There wasn't a single thing he could do, he didn't know who to find, where to find it or where to find her. It was a waiting game, a long and dreadful waiting game.
Memories after memories of him and his sister flooded through his mind, each hit getting rougher and more furious with every thought.
The silver ring on his finger caught his attention, his body froze and his fists stopped midair. Flexing open his hand, he examined the glimmering silver ring—the matching one to his sisters.
