Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
The hard part is keeping Matteo out of the loop. Matteo is a brother to me, but I just can’t risk it.
Fuck. Even thinking of lying to him makes me want to murder someone.
Speaking of killing someone, I need a distraction, and that would be the perfect one.
Something that bleeds or screams or begs for mercy. Preferably, all three will help my mood.
I pull out my phone and dial Rafe.
He answers on the second ring with a groan. “What now?”
“You find the rat yet?” I cut in.
Rafe exhales hard, like he’s debating whether he should hang up on me or keep talking. “Good morning to you, too.”
“I don’t do mornings.” I pace toward the balcony doors. “I do results.”
A sigh hisses across the line. “We have a lead.”
“Is he breathing?”
“For now—”
“Bring him to the warehouse.” My teeth grind around the words. “Whole body. I need him to talk. I’m not in the mood for bullshit today.”
“Rough time with the missus?”
I ignore his question. “Bring him.”
“I know you want him breathing, but do you want him conscious?”
“That’s how interrogations usually work,” I snap. “Unless you know something I don’t about corpses. If so, call the Vatican.”
“I’ll bring him.”
“Good.” I hang up without another word.
I don’t say goodbye. That’s for people who aren’t planning to beat answers out of someone before lunch.
I slip a gun into my waistband and head down the staircase toward my garage.
If I stay in this house another second, I’ll lose the last shred of control I pretend to have.
Time to hurt someone.
The warehouse, as usual, smells like death.
Which is perfect for what I have in mind.
The guy Rafe dragged in sits zip-tied to a steel chair in the center of the concrete floor. He’s already breathing like he ran here. Chest jerking and throat working overtime.
His eyes flick from me to the door, like he’s trying to find an escape route in my face.
Spoiler: there isn’t one.
His lip is split, and one eye is swollen shut.
The sight soothes me more than the best drugs could.
Rafe stands off to the side, arms crossed, expression carefully blank. If he looks too amused, it encourages me. It encourages me anyway.
I circle the rat slowly, boots echoing across the concrete, and then I trail a finger along the back of his chair.
I like toying with my prey.
“You know,” I muse, voice almost light, “I actually woke up today in a bad mood.”
Rafe makes a sound that might be a laugh.
The guy in front of me, however, stares at me with his one good eye, like I’m speaking another language.
“Long night,” I continue, letting my smile sharpen. “No sleep. Lots of . . . personal problems.” My gaze drifts over his trembling hands. “And then I found out you existed.”
His breath catches.
“And suddenly, I felt happy. Soon, I got this itch.”
“What kind?” Rafe asks, rubbing his jaw comically. He’s clearly enjoying this.
“The urge to pull someone’s spine out of their throat type of itch.”
Rafe’s mouth twitches. “Is that even possible?”
“Not sure, but I’d like to find out,” I say pleasantly, then crouch in front of my prisoner so he can see exactly how calm I am. “And you? You’re the perfect specimen.”
“I didn’t do anything,” he stammers. “I swear, I wasn’t—I didn’t—”
“Please,” I interrupt, tone dripping with fake sympathy. “Don’t lie. I’m already traumatized enough for the week.”
His throat bobs. His one eye shines wet.
Good. Fear is motivation.
I tilt my head like I’m considering him as a concept. “Let’s not beat around the bush. Tell me what I want to know.”
“N-no—”
“Don’t insult me,” I snap, tapping his cheek—lightly, almost affectionately, the way you’d pat a child before you punish them. “I’m already in therapy.” I lean closer, voice dropping. “It’s going terribly.”
“You’re not in therapy,” Rafe retorts.
“Exactly,” I reply without looking at him. “Imagine how much worse it could get.”
I turn back to the moron in front of me, a smile returning. “You going to talk?”
He clamps his jaw shut.
Ah. A bold stance.
I stand and drag the chair backward across the floor. The legs screech like tortured violin strings. He winces at the sound, like it hurts more than the bruises.
“You know,” I continue conversationally, “the last guy who fucked with me had the courtesy to confess to all sins right away.” I pause, considering. “Saved everyone a lot of time.”
Silence.
I sigh like I’m inconvenienced. “Fine. Have it your way.”
Rafe steps forward and slides a folding blade into my hand like he’s passing a pen to sign paperwork. The man knows my moods.
I flip it open, admiring the glint under the fluorescent lights. “Last chance. Who are you working for?”
The rat’s voice cracks. “If I talk, they’ll kill me.”
I grin, bright and terrible. “Then we have something in common.”
His eyes widen.
I drag the blade lightly along the collar of his shirt—not cutting, just enough to make him feel the difference between mercy and choice.