Turn off the emotions. Go to that place in my mind that’s my security. Pain can’t touch me there. I learned a long time ago how to compartmentalize, and it’s helped me survive in a world that would like me to shatter into pieces.
“All this because I said you weren’t my type?” I tsk. “It’s a bit of an overkill, Doyle.”
His pleasant face morphs into frustration. “Shutup.”
“Did I hurt your feelings?” I shrug, though the act is restricted. “Sorry about that. I’ve never been good at letting people down.” Tsking, I make a vague gesture above my head. “I tend to cut their necks and move on.”
He growls, swinging at my stomach. Air rushes past my lips, and I cough, the pain a welcome relief. If I can feel, I’m still alive. At least, that’s the theory.
I sway, finding my balance. “I’m sorry you feel that way, but I’m a one-woman kind of man.” Looking up, I wink, torso throbbing. Get the prick some credit—he can actually hit. “She kind of owns all of me. Can’t really share.”
“Jesus,” he curses, words flavored with his Irish homeland. “Do you ever stop talking?”
“Me?” I pretend to ponder his words. “Not really.” At least not in torture situations. It tends to piss people off when they can’t get under your skin.
Sighing, he turns toward a metal stool. Laid out with heavy equipment—pliers, scissors, a cattle prod, knives, and various other fun bits—he makes sure to put it right next to me.
He thinks he’s intimidating. I’ve got bad news for him: I was trained by one of the coldest motherfuckers in this outfit, and born to another psychopath who Interpol has on their watchlist. Doyle, in his adorable little dress shoes and styled hair, doesn’t bother me. He only irritates me like a fly.
“So, what’s this, Doyle?” I pull on the chains again. “A marriage proposal?”
“We’re going to have a conversation.”
“Are we?” I drawl, shifting my weight. Christ, he couldn’t even tie me up right.
You never let the victim touch the ground. By lifting them high enough, gravity pulls them down and will slowly dislocate their shoulder. It’s uncomfortable and effective to get answers.
Apparently, we both didn’t have the same lessons in the clan. Lucky for me, I can stand. Which means I already have the upper hand to escape.
“Ronan must have informed you,” he begins, holding up a handsaw. The edges are rusty—nice touch. “We know Maeve didn’t come into her power—naturally.”
“Naturally,” I taste the word. “How so?”
“She struck some deal with the old capo of the De Luca family.” He waves his finger. “That’s against the rules. The Board doesn’t work with anyone outside for clan matters. But yet, she stepped right over the line and made a deal.”
Sighing, I hang my head. “Is this still about Sloane? Man, I think you need help. You sound obsessed.”
Doyle scoffs. “I’m obsessed? You stalked a woman for months because you couldn’t let her go.”
“This isn’t about me,” I say cheerfully. “Besides, she’s your niece.”
He kicks the stool, sending his tools flying across the floor. Poor planning, now he’ll have to find them when he starts to torture me.
“That’s not the point,” he growls. “I’m owed her. Ferguson made an agreement.”
“Ferguson made a lot of agreements,” I admit. “And none of them were good.”
It takes a lot to say that. To admit the man who saved me from living on the streets was not a good man. I always knew he wasn’t—he taught me how to pop eyes out of a human skull while they were still alive—but, to me, he was bigger than the consequences of our actions. He had a shred of humanity in him for seeing something in me—and choosing me, regardless of that darkness.
I always thought I mattered to him. That if I had escaped the father I had, I found one in Ferguson. Depraved, mean, and barbaric, but still a better option than Kwan.
I was stupid, though. He chose to sell Maeve to Michael. He knew what was happening and never stopped it. Any good I had for the man had dwindled as I flew around the county killing off potential suitors, but it completely left me when he put his hands on Maeve for trying to save her sister.
Killing him wasn’t too difficult to stomach when I put things in perspective. Who was more important—a man who would use his daughter for his own greed, or the woman who would sacrifice herself for everyone else?
I would choose Maeve in this life—and the next.
“I know of his deals,” Doyle growls. “I know what he had planned for Maeve. Tell me,” he says, scooping up the cattle prong. “Did all those potential arrangements die, or did you have something to do with it?”
