Page 46

"Send someone to their house," I order without slowing. "The mother wants her cats."

Mauro blinks once. "… cats?"

"Yeah. All of them." I jab the elevator button. "Food, litter, whatever the hell they need. And clothes. For both of them."

"What kind of clothes?"

I shoot him a look. "Comfortable. Not fucking runway."

"Yes, boss."

The elevator doors slide open, and we step inside.

"Make sure the place is swept before anyone goes in," I add. "The cops or whoever took her might be staking it out."

Mauro nods, already pulling out his phone, relaying my orders while the doors close. I watch the numbers go down while the box makes its way to the ground floor. Just as we reach the casino level, Mauro receives another call. He listens before telling me, "The prisoners are secured. Both are alive. For now."

Good. Before the doors open, I catch sight of my reflection and see blood on my shirt. Her blood. From her split lip. It must have reopened when I held her. Hot simmering fury rises from my stomach, and it takes an effort to keep it down.

"Where?" I ask.

"Basement level three."

Wordlessly, I press L3 on the panel, which reads my fingerprint. Only a few men have access to that level. The doors close again. The ride three more stories down is quick, but the contrast couldn't be any stronger as we step into a different world. There is no marble here. No sunlight. Just concrete. Steel. And the smell of blood. Mingled with fear.

I roll my shoulders once as we walk. The pain in my arm is a distant thing. Irrelevant. The thought of Audra shooting me makes me chuckle. I wasn't lying when I said it'll be my favorite scar. I trace the fresh bandage under my shirt with two fingers, feeling the heat of the wound she gave me, and my cock twitches again like the damn thing remembers her fire better than I do.

Another chuckle escapes me as a picture forms in my head: us someday, surrounded by people who think they understand our world. Massimo and Jenna, spinning their tale of burying the body of the man she killed, all polished violence and wicked smiles. And then Audra and I, calm as sinners in church, telling them how she put a bullet in me while standing over her husband's corpse. I wonder which story would win. Theirs would be blood and betrayal. Ours would be obsession, wrapped in silk and gunpowder. Both would taste like forever.

Then I push that emotion back down, too. It has no right to exist here.

One of my men opens the reinforced door for us without a word. Alessio is there, leaning against a metal table, cleaning his knife like he's bored, and Damiano is pacing behind him.

In the center, on two chairs, the men are tied down. What's left of them, anyway.

"You took your time," Damiano greets me lightly.

"I had business upstairs," I grunt.

Alessio smirks. "Yeah. I can only imagine. Did she thank you for being her white knight?"

I press out, "Fuck off," before my attention locks onto the prisoners. That's when the rage returns. Not the blind kind from before. This one is sharper. Colder. Controlled.

I step closer. One of the men lifts his head weakly. Recognition flickers, followed by fear. He sobs, shakes his head from side to side. I lock eyes with him; he'll be the easier of the two to break. I swallow the rage down because if these men acted on orders of El Recaudador, it means that the attack on Audra and Pete wasn't random. That it's not some cartel getting jumpy. Then this will be mine to own. I don't give a shit about Pete. Wrong place. Wrong time. But her? My gaze flicks, just for a second, to the blood on my shirt. If this came down on her because I couldn't leave well enough alone… because I watched. Because I got too close… Darkness settles in my chest. I don't do guilt. Never have. But this? This would be different. This would be something I'd have to answer for. This guy will have to answer.

"Let's start simple," I murmur, crouching down in front of him, resting my forearms on my knees. "Who do you work for?"

Silence. Of course. I nod slowly. "Alright."

I stand and turn slightly. "Break his fingers."

The man's eyes widen. "No—no?—"

One of our men moves before the prisoner finishes the sentence, holding a pair of pliers. We've been calling him Brick for so long that nobody remembers his real name. Decades ago, he was an MMA wrestler who got in with the wrong crowd. One of them thought it was a good idea to gouge one of Brick's eyesout when he didn't agree to throw a fight. Rumor has it that the idiot is rotting in a basement, without teeth, eyes, arms, or legs. Brick keeps feeding him, keeping him alive, and taking parts whenever he's in the mood. I say rumor, because I haven't asked him. Some things are better left unspoken.

Brick's nose and left ear have seen better times, too. His nose has been broken so many times, it looks like a turnip, and that ear has been crushed into a thick, misshapen slab of cartilage—cauliflower ear from years of violence.

He doesn't need the pliers. He could break the prisoner's ulna with his hands without much effort. The pliers are more of a psychological effect. A crack echoes through the room. A scream follows.