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Tony Greco was tied to a metal chair in the middle of the otherwise empty dungeon. Until recently, the floor had been covered in dust. Now the dust hung in the air, tickling my nose. It mixed in with the blood, sweat and drool on Tony’s face. His skin resembled an abstract painting—the kind that made a person ill when they looked at it.
Tony had been here since early morning. My men hadn’t held back in their interrogations. Still, they hadn’t covered any solid ground.
“What is the Babau’s real name?” I asked, feigning nonchalance.
“I-I don’t know!” he shrieked. “None of us do! The don keeps his identity a secret, I-I swear!”
Biting the inside of my cheek, I threw him a disappointed glare. He opened his mouth to protest, but I met his words with my fist. The hit was hard, but not detrimental. I didn’t want him passing out on me just yet. If he did, I would be here for hours. And Emma was undoubtedly still upset. Eoghan assured me she hadn’t left the apartment, but I had to get to my girl. We’d both acted rash tonight, but I might’ve pushed her a bit too far. I’d been an asshole, but I’d do it again in a heartbeat if she ever put herself in danger like that again.
The fracture in my right hand was almost healed, but I didn’t want to aggravate it. So, I used my left as I dealt another blow to Tony’s stomach, knocking the air from his lungs. The blood he’d been holding behind his lips flew at my face. I grimaced, wiping it away with the back of my forearm.
“That was rude,” I deadpanned. Now I would have to thoroughly bathe before seeing Emma. It was past midnight and she’d be sleeping. I’d wash, then wake her to apologize.
“Do you know who I am, Tony?” I asked, massaging my knuckles. I would wear bruises on them for a few days.
He made a disrespectful noise at the back of his throat. I glanced at him, brows raised. He knew I wanted more of an answer than that.
“The fucking devil,” he spoke through clenched teeth.
He balled his tied hands into fists behind his back. He was trying to hide his fury, but his eyes were fearful. I might have been an arrogant bastard, but I could read a man well. The subtle cues his body lent told me just how far I had to push—how much longer it would take to break him. This man, however, couldn’t be broken. He didn’t know anything about the Babau. He was being honest, which I found impressive. Honesty was hard to come by in an enemy. He could’ve falsified information, which would have set me back a solid week.
“Close enough, Tony.” Although he’d meant the name as an insult, it made me chuckle. Tony’s eyes widened at the malicious sound, terror flitting across his features. “Close enough.”
The middle-aged mobster shifted in his seat, assuming what would come next. He could see the resolve in my eyes, but I was conflicted. Should I return this man to Nicoletti with a warning? I wanted to send a message to the bastard, but I still had the element of surprise on my side. If the don knew I was blocking his trade routes and interrogating his men, he would respond with his own attack, which could pull the Babau from his hiding place. It would give me the chance to take him out—or, at the very least, gather a name—before more people got hurt.
But my anonymity was on the line as well. Tony knew me by reputation alone. Once people got a good look at my face, I didn’t let them go. I relied on the fact that my enemies couldn’t describe or document my appearance.
Decision made, I turned to face Tony. He flinched, a whimper escaping his lips. I pulled the pistol with the attached silencer from my waistband, aiming it between his brows.
“I do apologize for this.” My words were clear and without affectation. “I wish you had information, so your death wasn’t for nothing. I’ll be more careful next time.”
“Please!” he screamed, his voice hitting a pitch only a man begging for his life could. His eyes were round orbs, the whites glowing as he leaned forward in his restraints…and right into the barrel of the gun.
Without so much as a blink, I pulled the trigger and left the room.
* * * *
Emma
The arrival of the elevator pulled me from my slumber. I’d fallen asleep on the couch watching infomercials, but the television screen had gone black. I slapped the coffee table, searching for my phone. When I found it, I saw it was after two in the morning. Jack was late.
The apartment’s sound system roared to life. Metallica shook the tiny hairs in my eardrums. I straightened, peering over the back of the sofa. Jack was fumbling with the interactive screen in the foyer. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, struggling to see in the dark.
“Shit!” Jack cursed, slamming his palm against the touch screen. I put two and two together—Jack had been listening to music and his phone had automatically synced to the speakers. “Fucking hell…”
“Jack?” I stood, brushing my hand along the wall, probing for the light switch. The music cut off. “You okay?”
“I’m sorry for waking you up,” he muttered, still hidden in shadow. “Please don’t turn on the lights.”
“Okay,” I answered, brow furrowing. “For Whom the Bell Tolls, huh? Does that mean you’re still angry with me?”
Jack sighed, ruffling the hair at the nape of his neck. “I’m not angry, baby, and I apologize for what I did.”
“Can we talk?” I asked, hope bubbling in my chest. I didn’t expect him to be so receptive. “Preferably not in the dark?”
Jack gave me a wide berth, heading toward the hall. “I have to shower first.”
“Okay…” I trailed off, unnerved. Under normal circumstances, makeup sex was in order after an apology. Jack liked to jump on that at the first opportunity. Standing in the living area wearing nothing more than a white tank top and panties, I was a siren. So, why was showering so important?
