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The drive home is a quiet one, but at least Skylar isn’t pulling away, not exactly. Instead, he peers out the window, staring off into the night, all the while his fingers trace comforting patterns onto the back of my neck.
If he doesn’t want to say her name out loud, then there’s probably a reason. Either way, I’ll be here for him when he’s ready to talk.
Chapter nineteen
Jericho
Iwake up slowly, automatically reaching for Skylar, only to find the bed empty and cold. Sitting up, I don’t spot any signs of struggle. I get out of bed and make my way to the surveillance room. I already know that’s where I’ll find him.
I stand a few feet away, leaning casually against the doorframe. He’s sitting at my desk, shirtless, with strong, lean arms crossed over his chest, and thick brown hair falling into his face as he studies the camera in front of him.
Stepping into the room, I glance at the feed that shows us The Director. Franko’s head is lolling against his shoulder, his breathing deep from a chemically induced coma. He’s strapped to a chair with heavy chains in the abandoned factory, awaiting our return.
Six days. Six days, and the man will be dead. Stripped of his hired goons and armored protection, he looks rather fucking pathetic. He’s just a man. A target. A piece of shit person we successfully kidnapped.
Together.
An intoxicating rush of victory sizzles through me. We did it. We extracted him right out of his sky-high fortress without leaving a single drop of blood for the guards to find.
“I don’t think I can do it, Jericho.” He glances up at me from over his shoulder. “I don’t think I can wait six days.”
Skylar holds up a familiar slip of paper. I instantly recognize the font. It’s the same slips of paper I leave with my kills. The ones I use to send a message by typing out a list of the dead person’s victims. It’s my way of telling the world what a piece of shit each person I kill is, all while avenging some of those who were hurt along the way.
Skylar places it on the desk in front of us and taps on a name. His eyes meet mine again, and I’m startled to see tears. He swallows hard. “She was my sister.”
I read the name, not prepared. The ground seems to slip out from under my feet. Fiona Wild. One of Franko’s ex-girlfriends. Images fill my mind; some of her last moments.
While researching The Director, Alessandro discovered some old surveillance tapes his father kept around, probably as collateral damage. I had already agreed to kill Franko, but I wanted anything that could help clue me into his potential whereabouts.
When we stumbled onto the recordings, we were both horrified to find out how Franko treated Fiona in her last moments. No one deserved that. “You know, don’t you?” I whisper, wishing I could do anything to go back in time and help Fiona before things ended the way they did. “You know how he treated her.”
Skylar nods. “I know enough. She kept a detailed journal.”
Fucking hell, no wonder he didn’t want to mention her name. “Oh god. That’s how you compiled your list.” Skylar has killed so many fucking people. What else did they do to Fiona that I don’t know about? An icy dread pools heavily in my stomach, turning everything inside me into curdled sour liquid. It’s a sick, twisting weight. It’s the kind of knowledge that doesn’t just shock you, but taints the very air in your lungs.
He nods again, a sob escaping his throat.
“Fuck. Come here, sweetheart.” I open my arms, and he practically jumps into them. I swoop him up and carry him to our bedroom. Because that’s what it is now. Our bedroom. I place him gently on the bed and crawl in after him. As soon as I tug him to me, he begins sobbing.
My heart fucking breaks. I encourage him to let it all out. Then, I hush and coo at him, all while gripping him to me. “Don’t worry, love. I got you. We’ll fucking kill him. Together. Just like I promised. No need to wait six days.”
He whispers silent ‘thank yous’ against my skin over and over again.
“You’re mine now, minx. You hear me? Mine. I’ll do anything in this world to make you happy. Even if it’s torturing that pathetic excuse of a man until he begs for death.”
Chapter twenty
Jericho
The overpowering chemical scent of the sedative fades, and the pungent stink of smelling salts takes its place. Franko’s chest heaves under his torn and dirty suit, a ragged gasp tearing from his throat as his eyelids flutter open. A pathetic, choked groan leaves his lips.
Franko tries to lift his hands, but the heavy steel chair holds him in place. The sharp, metallic clink of the heavy chains binding his torso to the iron frame echoes around us.
I step forward into his sight, my black outfit blending into the shadows of the factory floor. I’m no longer Skylar, the lively porn star he thought he could control. I’m a fucking predator that he should have tried harder to avoid.
“Good morning, Franko,” I purr, the coldness in my voice cutting through the damp, ruined air. I slide my hand to my pendant, my fingers brushing the smooth, familiar metal.
Franko blinks frantically, his gaze darting around us as he takes in the abandoned factory. Shattered glass, rusty metal, and broken machinery. He’s a smart enough guy. I’m sure he recognizes his graveyard. When his eyes finally lock onto me, a flicker of desperate rage crosses his features.
