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His face pales, and I can’t help but laugh. When I’m a woman holding a gun, I’m a whore, but when I’m a Vettore holding a gun, that suddenly means I’m dangerous.
“You’d be hot in a grim reaper costume,” Garrix comments. “I have a ghost face mask and a stabby knife…we can do some freaky role playing shit.”
He’s certifiable, and I guess I am too, because the idea of him in a ghost face mask chasing me around the woods outside my vacation home in Aspen is like something out of my deepest, darkest fantasies come to life.
“You two are sick,” Boris grouses, his face pinched.
“That’s a bit negative. We’re sexually creative,” Garrix corrects him. “Anyway, why don’t you tell us what Dmitri is trying to do to my lovely girlfriend here? If you think a knife through your hand is bad, I can make it much worse.”
“I don’t know!” he shouts.
I don’t know why people always insist they don’t know anything. Do they honestly think I’d go through the trouble and clean up to torture them if I wasn’t reasonably sure they did?
“Wrong answer,” he practically sings.
Garrix takes the knife handle and twists it as he pulls it out. Boris’ voice is almost hoarse from how loudly he screams. Then he grabs Boris’ cheek and uses the blood soaked knife’s sharp edge to shave part of his beard off, from the top of his cheek all the way to the base of his throat. He keeps the knife there.
“So a quick biology lesson, since you seem dumb as fuck and need all the help you can get. This is your carotid artery. When sliced open, it bleeds like a motherfucker. If you don’t start talking to my lady, you’re going to bleed out.”
He tries to duck away from the knife and Garrix leaves a faint cut on his neck. Little drops of blood trickle from it. He eyes them as they trail down his throat with an intense interest.
“Oh, that was close,” I say, perching on the other armchair next to Boris, careful to avoid the blood soak. “You feel like talking yet?”
“He’s offended you didn’t accept his proposal,” he stammers.
“I’m aware of that, tell me something I don’t know.” I try to muster up some patience, but it’s difficult. Unfortunately, Maximo got all the patience in the womb.
“I swear I don’t know anything specific! Please let me go.” I put my gun against his temple. “He doesn’t tell any of his soldiers specifics!”
After handing the gun to Garrix, I take his uninjured hand and look at his fingernails. Garrix catches my eye and reads my mind when he says, “You know, Boris, you really need to keep cleaner fingernails. Hygiene is important.”
He takes the knife and cuts Boris’ t-shirt off, wadding it inside his mouth. The thoughtfulness of the gesture catches me off guard in a good way.
“Agreed.” I use the tip of the knife to pry one off, like an oyster shell. Then another. His shrieks are muffled by the makeshift gag. “You have eight fingernails left. Or I can shave the other side of your face. It can’t be that hard. What are the chances I’ll cut your throat?”
He rips the gag out of his mouth. “A few of us take shifts following you and watching your apartment building,” he pants. He takes a few long breaths, trying to work through the pain. “We report our findings to Dmitri.”
“So I bet one of you assholes is why my apartment got trashed.” I roll my eyes. “Do you think he’ll tell us any more useful tidbits or should we just kill him?”
Boris lunges for the knife, tackling me to the ground. He straddles me, thrusting the knife to my neck. He’s a large man, but I’ve fought off bigger and badder opponents. His form is weak, and I’m able to block him before he stabs me. I flip us over and pin his hands above his head.
Garrix steps on his nuts, and Boris screeches loud enough that the whole club probably knows what’s going on in here by now. “Do you want to stab him, or shoot him, little killer?”
“Hmmm, stabbing him will leave less to clean up afterward,” I muse, holding him down as he struggles.
“You don’t have to worry about clean up. Make as big of a mess as you want, and I got you.” He smiles at me, and butterflies erupt in my stomach.
Garrix Cameron is equal parts romantic and deranged. And it’s such a turn on.
Before I get to decide, Dave busts through the door. “Maddie, there are Russians brawling in the club. They’re making a huge mess out there.”
I hear gunshots and screams. “Where the fuck is John Carlo?” He should be here.
“We can’t get ahold of him.” He checks his phone again. “He isn’t responding to me or Domenico.”
“Sounds like date night got a lot more interesting. Let’s crack some skulls.” Garrix pulls a set of brass knuckles out of his suit pocket.
Dave looks at me, and I nod, pulling out my gun. “Let’s go take care of some Russians.”
