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Using strength beyond anything I thought I could ever summon, I managed to stifle the rage long enough to slide into the cool, collected skin of Boss. The cruel prick who contemplated every single side of a problem before plotting his attack. Who was a master at tactical planning. I put the heavy metal lamp back on the nightstand and cracked my neck, forcing my focus on what needed to happen next. By the time I stripped and stood under the hot spray, I had blocked out every single useless emotion except one.
Wrath.
I would be exactly who I had been over the last five years—an unfeeling, detached, ruthless and unstoppable killing machine. A murderer who felt nothing, cared about nothing, worried about nothing. The only goal, revenge. I scrubbed every inch of my body raw, desperate to cleanse away the guilt and pain. Strong and powerful, Boss stepped out of the shower, ready for war, and left that weak and sentimental pussy, Jag, to swirl down the drain.
With purpose, I strode into my closet and perused my options. My fingers trailed down the fine material of a dark Armani. A frown pulled at my mouth. Fuck the goddamn suit. I was sick and goddamn tired of ruining them, and there was no doubt I planned on using my blades, which meant blood. A lot of blood. I dried off and threw on worn jeans and a long-sleeved tee, sheaths and knives strapped in place, gun in its holster, my mind singularly focused.
Boss was ready for war.
“Boss! Boss!” Sarge ran into the foyer and skidded to a stop as I descended the stairs.
He flinched at the hard countenance and icy demeanor I had fixed firmly in place. I was certain he could also detect the boiling fury resting just under the surface, the façade keeping it at bay ready to split open at the slightest provocation. “What is it?”
“You uh, got an email.” I moved to step around him, but Sarge’s hand shot out and clamped down on my bicep. Brave, but stupid.
“What the fuck?” I snarled, leveling my enraged stare on my head of security.
“Boss…” The guy swallowed and I noticed fear shining in his usually shrewd eyes. Despite my displeasure and the danger I posed to his taking another breath, Sarge didn’t let go. Instead, he squeezed harder. “Don’t.” The terror in Sarge’s eyes morphed to pity.
No.
Dread iced
over the lava pulsing in my veins. Chilling the glowing orange liquid into thick, black, sludge that pumped directly to my hollow heart. Whatever was on that email was disturbing enough for one of my most loyal employees to defy me when I was at my most lethal in order to stop me from seeing it. I tore out of his grip and ran to the study. Five years ago, I watched my sister systematically grow thinner and weaker by the day, waiting until I had enough men behind me to kill the boss and take her back, only to arrive too late. Ochoa put a bullet in her head while I stood and watched. If I could live through that, I could face whatever nightmare was in that email.
“Boss!” Sarge pleaded.
No fucking way was I not reading Cuchillo’s message. I opened the panic room and whirled around to face Sarge. “Don’t follow me inside.” His face fell and the guy looked like he was in actual pain, but the loyal bastard gave me a sharp nod, respecting my wishes.
The room was a wreck. I picked my way through the shattered remnants of my various outbursts and sat behind the desk. The laptop was open, as was the email from El Cuchillo. There was a video attachment beneath a single word.
Enjoy.
Oh fuck. The thumbnail on the attachment was tiny, but I could clearly see Miri with a gag in her mouth. My heart stuttered and my limbs grew weak. Anxiety dropped like a lead brick in my lap. With a shaky hand, I reached for the mouse and double clicked the link.
And promptly lost my goddamn mind.
3
Miri
My entire body hurt, from the bottoms of my feet to the top of my head. I think even my hair hurt. When I tried to move, I noticed two things. One, I wasn’t on the hard, cold floor of the cement cell, but a soft mattress. Two, I wasn’t alone.
“Oh my God. Thank you, thank you, thank you. You’re awake.”
The sobbing female voice was familiar, but I couldn’t pull myself out of the haze long enough to remember before I slipped back into unconsciousness.
The second time I came around, I lay perfectly still. Every little twitch or slight movement sent white-hot lightning tearing through my battered body. My breath hitched as I recalled the events from yesterday. Or was it today? Or had I been out even longer? I tried to keep the memories out of my head and failed. Every single horror that happened, from the minute I woke up tied to a chair in the beautiful room, until the minute I passed out from inconceivable pain, flashed behind my eyes.
* * *
The hand tightened around my throat and panic flooded my senses, my body going batshit crazy. This was it. I was going to die. I wanted to be brave, to face my fate with courage and not give these assholes the pleasure of seeing me beg, cry, or suffer. But the instinct to live was too strong to ignore. I jerked uselessly against the bindings and screamed myself hoarse around the gag. The hand pressed down further on my fragile windpipe and my lungs struggled to pull in oxygen. The light at the edges of my vision dimmed.
Just like that, the hand was gone. My head flopped forward and I coughed into the gag as I inhaled breath after breath through my nose. When my brain received the much-needed oxygen and I shook off the confusion of near-asphyxiation, I heard the man behind me laughing. Unable to twist my neck far enough to see him, I faced forward and realized I was staring at myself on a screen. The tender skin around my throat was already bruised a dark shade of purple. The shape of a handprint clear on my pale skin. El Cuchillo, The Knife, as he called himself, was chuckling as if he were watching his favorite weekly sitcom instead of torturing a helpless woman.
I wanted to kill him.
“That was perfect, cusca. Beautiful. Your lover will enjoy seeing this. Probably not as much as I enjoy doing it, but what can you do?” He leaned over my shoulder and put his mouth right on my ear. I twisted my head away from his touch and cursed into the gag. Cuchillo pulled back where I couldn’t see him and spoke one calm word. “Raoul.”
