Of course, he sags. Blood loss. Fatigue. Age. The man isn’t in his prime.
“At your brothers’ request.”
“What?!”
“To earn the invitation, you were the name they gave her.”
His eyes grow round with horror. “Why?”
“I have to wonder if they knew she’d kill him. The ear sent a message. You and your spawn must have pissed them off.” I step closer to him, enjoying his misery. “Ordinarily, I’d think the loss of a child would be adequate punishment if I throw in yesterday’s session too. Unfortunately for you, he left bruises.”
“Bruises?” Harrington’s tears trickle down his cheeks. “What are you talking about?”
His confusion is multifaceted. The old bastard has no idea why he’s here.
“He hurt her. She doled out the ultimate punishment, of course, but that means I’m left withmyvengeance unresolved.” Before he has the chance to plead for mercy, I dig my knife into the side of his head, just below his ear. Well, where his ear once was. “Head wounds always bleed heavily?—”
“No, please!” He twists aside then hisses when he nicks himself on my blade anyway. Idiot. “I’ll give you anything you want. Tell you anything you want. I swear!”
I ponder that, finding it curious if not good luck that the man thinks he has a chance of making his way out of this room in one of my warehouses.
Burrowing the tip into his neck, I ask about a name I heard being discussed at last night’s banquet: “Is Gideon Taylor-Wright a Veronian?”
“Y-Yes. Has been for a long time. Hisverowas Clyde Korhonen,” Harrington says in a rush, using the term I’ve come to learn means “partner” in this dumbfucksecretsociety. “They had a hedge fund together before Korhonen was arrested in Canada on some kind of murder charge.
“Korhonen’s a billionaire. He backed the hedge fund and used it to tear down companies that evaded Veronian interest.”
Funny how desperation will loosen a man’s tongue.
I lower the knife then, as relief hits, hurl it into the wall next to his head.
While he screeches, I retrieve another from an ankle holster. Still breathing hard, Harrington eyes the blade warily, but the tremor in his muscles dissipates.
“How can a company ‘evade Veronian interest?’”
“With great difficulty. T-Typically, a brother approaches them and makes anoffer?—”
“An offer they can’t refuse?”
“Y-Yes,” he rambles, not picking up on my mockery. “Once you catch our attention, it’s unwise not to follow through with our requests.”
“If they accede to your demands, do they become a Veronian?”
“No, but they gain our protection.”
“If they refuse?”
“Then their assets are disassembled,” he says in a flustered rush, his eyes tracking the knife’s path as I dig the tip into my forefinger and spin it in a circle.
Just the sight of my own blood has him panting heavily.
Knowing full well that this could set off a panic attack, I pluck at his remaining earlobe and slice straight through to the cartilage.
One.
He screams. Not even like a girl. Victoria didn’t scream like that last night. But this piece of shit does and I barely cut him—and he calls himself a masochist.
When the inevitable panic attack kicks off, I watch as he tortures himself with little effort on my side.
