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We go down the stairs together. By the time we get down to the basement and Ciro leads me into a large, cement-walled room, the other men already have Leland Bennett tied to a chair in the middle of the room.
I linger in the doorway for a second as Ciro steps farther into the room. My stomach churns, but I steel myself against any lingering squeamishness and walk forward, taking my place next to Hale’s side. I feel his attention flicker toward me briefly before it’s focused on Leland again.
Ciro doesn’t wait.
He doesn’t ease into it.
I thought Hale’s punches were brutal, but that’s nothing compared to the vicious strikes Ciro unleashes on the man in the chair. Leland’s already split lip turns bruised and swollen. His left eye swells shut. But still, Ciro doesn’t stop.
The only time the black-haired man even pauses is to let Hale question their prisoner, holding his punches back until he’s determined that Leland still refuses to answer. Then a new round of blows rains down, making Leland groan.
It goes on for minutes, but Damian’s old captain doesn’t give up anything. Dripping in sweat that mingles with his blood, he grunts with each blow as Ciro continues but never gives an answer to any of the questions Hale asks.
Leland may be a traitor with a weakness against betrayal and bribery, but he’s received the same training each of the other men have. He doesn’t break easily. Whatever secret he’s holding on to isn’t going to come out even under an assault of fists. When Ciro begins to sense this, the punching suddenly stops.
Walking over to the other side of the room, he opens a cupboard I didn’t notice before. It’s only when Ciro grabs a knife from the rack of weapons and devices attached to the doors and shelves that I realize the display isn’t just for show. My stomach tightens into a hard knot.
The next level of interrogation has started.
Battering someone with questions isn’t going to break them down, not in the line of work these men are in. No, it comes down to pain and how much of it you can stand. Ciro survived months of torture at an enemy syndicate’s hands, but he never broke.
He’s the exception, though. Not the rule.
Ciro’s torture is purposeful and deliberate, and when Leland screams with the first cut, Zaid curses under his breath, shifting to stand in front of me.
“No,” I say, shaking. I feel like I might fucking hurl any second, but I’m not backing down now. I’m not fucking leaving. “No.”
“Grace—” Zaid protests, trying once again to block my view. But Hale holds out a hand, stopping him.
“She said no,” he growls. “It’s her choice.”
It is my choice, and I chose to be here. I didn’t choose the censored version, the version that’s easy to bear. I chose the truth.
And the truth is that Leland’s punishment is nothing compared to the blood shed from Damian. His pain is nothing compared to what Hale felt as he watched his father die. And if it is just as bad? I don’t care.
He brought this on himself when he betrayed the men I care about.
Leland holds out for a long time. Almost longer than my stomach can take. My palms are clammy, and my fingers shake as I clench my hands into fists. As the smell of blood becomes stronger and stronger in the air, I wonder how much longer I can hold on before I do vomit.
Luckily, I don’t have to find out, because Leland finally gives up.
“I’ll tell you!” he screams, his voice hoarse. “I’ll tell you. Please. Please…”
Just like that, Ciro stops, glancing back over his shoulder at Hale. His face is completely blank, impassive—as if he’s turned off his emotions completely as he did the job that had to be done.
Hale nods, and Ciro straightens and steps back, still holding the bloody knife.
Not even bothering to side-step the dark red puddles that have gathered on the floor by the chair, Hale steps forward. The room must be scrubbed down by someone after every interrogation, because the room was pristine when we came in. Now it smells like sweat and blood, like fear and adrenaline, but Hale doesn’t even seem to notice. He braces his hands on his knees and lowers his face until his eyes are level with Leland’s.
“Who do you work with?” He speaks the words slowly, his voice hard.
“I work for you—”
Leland’s stupid words earn him another blow to the face. The blood dripping from his nose and mouth sprays in a wide arc, splattering the floor in thick droplets.
“Why did you betray my father? Why betray the syndicate?” Hale growls. “Who are you working with?”
“Brian and I were trying to get Grace,” Leland says, wincing against the pain. His breaths come in gulps as he grasps for words.
