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“That’s a given at the moment, I’d say, bro?” Caleb gaze drifts over the penthouse, over the bloody towels and ashen-faced Moe, then toward the hall that leads to where Ross bled out.
“Shouldn’t we call the police?” Michelle’s voice is shaky and small, so unlike her.
Caleb snorts. “For what?”
She falters, taken aback. “I mean… Mercy’s been kidnapped. They’ll help us find her.”
“Oh, you sweet girl. Still so naïve.” He tsks. “You think they have the first damn clue where to look for her? We have a better shot of finding her on our own.”
“I just thought….”
“The last thing we need is anyone snooping around in here, including your new best friend, Agent Lewis, downstairs. You think she cares what happens to Mercy? Only if it helps her case.” Caleb slips Michelle’s phone out of his pocket, the one he confiscated last night, and waves it in the air. “And if she gets involved, I promise you’ll never see Mercy alive again. We all know you stabbed her in the back, but is that what you want?”
Michelle answers him with a vehement headshake, her eyes watering.
“Well then, don’t get any ideas. You just keep playing along like life’s one big happy party then, while Gabe and I deal with this family matter.” With a heavy sigh, he slides his own phone out and mutters, “Merrick’s cleaner is quickly depleting my gambling cash.”
I don’t care if we don’t have two coins to rub together, if it means finding Mercy. “Keep me updated.” I charge for the elevator, not waiting to confirm that Farley is following.
“Didn’t expect to see you back here again so soon,” Donny drawls, his keys jangling against his side with each step as he leads me along the narrow, dank corridor and into an older, rarely used section of the prison.
“Yeah, me neither,” I grumble. My visits are growing more frequent rather than less, the exact opposite of what I want. Then again, it serves as an icy cold shower to my reality. If I give my father everything he wants, I could end up behind these bars with him.
I could end up as hateful and twisted as he is.
“You know, these types of visits are a lot easier to arrange after hours.”
“I don’t give a shit what’s easy,” I snap, my mood steeped in bitterness after spending the four-hour drive here playing all kinds of Saw-like horror flick scenarios about what Bane could be doing to Mercy’s flawless body in my imagination.
I pay to have the Fulcort guard in my pocket when it’s needed for me, not when it’s convenient for him. And I pay him a truck’s worth. Or a fully loaded GTO’s worth, to be more accurate. All of these damn guards have been well compensated several times over since Vlad Easton climbed into his orange jumpsuit. Enough that they shouldn’t be uttering a word of complaint.
“Any news on Chops’s next match?” Donny asks, now with a touch of hesitation.
“No.” The last thing I care about is providing these degenerates their prison fight entertainment. Not unless my father is Chops’s opponent, and I’ll want a front row seat for that.
Donny glances over his shoulder at me but doesn’t say anything more—wise choice. If he couldn’t guess by my stony face when I arrived that I’m not doing idle chatter today, he’s figured it out by now.
The infamous Vlad Easton is waiting for me in the small room, leaning back in his chair, his legs sprawled, his bloated belly pressing against the edge of the table. A smug look is plastered across his pockmarked face as he watches me. He’s wearing bruises from the little tussle he and Caleb got into the last time we visited, which makes sense seeing as Caleb’s eye is still a mottled blueish purple.
“I got you ten minutes. Fifteen minutes, tops, before the supe starts—”
“I’ll take as long as I need.” I cut off Donny’s warning and dismiss him from my attention, marching toward the table in the center of the room, willing my fists to unclench as I take in the hateful bastard who gave me life.
The outer door clicks quietly behind me, leaving Dad and me locked in a staring contest for three beats.
“Another private visit and so soon. I am loved by my children after all,” he says after a moment.
He knows why I’m here, and all I want to do is reach across the table and choke the answer out of him. At the same time, I can’t ignore that twinge of hurt—of betrayal—that pricks my chest. I always knew our father was capable of being cruel, but I guess I was dumb enough to convince myself he wouldn’t do something as vicious as this to me.
I give a cursory glance at the cameras to make sure the lights are off and then I pull out the chair opposite my father and slide into it. “Where is she, you sick son of a bitch.”
