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Only, that plan got fucked over a week ago when someone made a move and murdered the leader of Noire House in his own bed. Chopped that motherfucker’s tongue out and dismembered him, leaving no clues or calling cards.
He deserved a longer and more creative punishment than that. A lingering, torturous death should have been his final sentence.
“The audio is confirmed?” Thorne snaps from his spot in the backseat. He’s glued to his phone, brows knitted together in that way he does. As always, he’s scheming on multiple levels.
“Yes,” Ven grunts back from the front passenger seat, not taking his eyes off the display of footage in front of him. He’s got a laptop balanced on his knees as he transfers the dash cam recordings and audio files.
These two could win awards for least words spoken; both are verbally constipated at the best of times.
My eyes drift to the rearview mirror. Again.
For a long moment, I let myself really look at her. She’s got amazing fucking tits, curves that beg to be gripped hard, and a pouty little mouth painted the perfect shade of red to leave a ring around my cock.
Don’t even get me started on her tattoo sleeve. It’s a cute mix of flowers and skulls and little memento kinds of designs. Books and the moon and shit that girls like her go nuts for.
Too bad she’s a pretty toy about to be broken.
Being the heir to Noire House is about to cost this girl her life.
“Copies are securely stored.” Ven is still talking at the screen, his tattooed fingers jabbing aggressively at the keyboard.
Thorne makes a noise of approval.
I flex my fingers around the steering wheel. Being in the city—any city—makes my skin crawl. But we had to collect our payment and do so while also obtaining the evidence Ven is currently backing up on secure servers and our encrypted drives.
We aren’t taking any chances.
Once a snake, always a fucking snake.
“Got it.” From the back seat, Thorne confirms the data is loaded. Our insurance policy for when this girl wakes up and will probably try to tear our faces off.
Oh, she might look like a pretty fucking package, but she grew up in the heart of the snake pit itself. Girls in this world don’t survive, let alone escape unless they’re capable of getting their hands dirty.
“Ten minutes until we’re boarded.” I glance at the timer counting down on my phone. We need this extraction to go smoothly, with our jet already running and prepared to return us to Port Macabre with our pretty little revenge package in tow.
Good thing she doesn’t have anyone who will notice she’s gone. Ven has already hacked into her bookings while we’ve been on the move, alerting her clients that she’s had a bereavement in the family, so will be closing her studio for the time being. They don’t need to know that means permanently.
The friend—seemingly her only one—has also been dealt with. We’ve got some of our best operatives tailing her and running interference.
By the time she suspects anything is amiss, we’ll be nothing more than ghosts. The way we’ve always worked best.
And now the Noire House lineage is about to be ours to destroy.
But not before we take the power this girl is going to give us—whether she does so willingly or not, is irrelevant—and use it to blow everything to fucking pieces. Including her.
“You drive like a bitch. I could have had us there already.” Ven is scowling at his laptop, still messing around with her accounts and private data, but as always, thinks he can do everything better.
“And you’d have drawn too much unnecessary attention while you were at it. You drive like you’ve got a fucking death wish.” Thorne is all business tonight. Something has him unusually dialed in. He’s a grouchy prick at the best of times, but every so often, he allows that ice-cold facade to drop.
I secretly live for those moments.
Not that I’d ever tell him that; there’s some kind of unspoken bro code that goes on between us. To all intents and purposes, I’m a younger brother. Even if there’s no blood between us, the Calliano brothers took me under their wing as a kid. They saved my life, and I’d follow them into the fiery pits of hell without question.
“Her digital footprint has been scrubbed.” Ven ignores him. “No tracing her location.”
“Accounts, too?”
“Emptied.”
