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Of Ana and our last conversation before she was killed.
Of the back of Viktor’s hand connecting with my cheek.
Of me on my knees, calling my fatherDaddy.
Of Justin dragging a kitchen knife down his face while grieving his brother—dead because of my father.
Justin was right. It was time to end this, so that no one else had to go through what he and I had.
32
Justin
“Where is Kusma?”
Ron choked on the blood running down his throat. Chunky red mucus sputtered from his mouth when he said, “I don’t know.”
“Bullshit.”
Fisting his hair, I yanked back his head and slammed it again into the white porcelain sink, now splattered red with blood. He gagged, spat, and three teeth tumbled onto the tiled floor.
It had been a while since I’d physically tortured someone for information. Normally, I dragged out the event for as long as I could, enjoying every second of it.
But not that day. I had no patience for that shit-eating asshole. Ron had already admitted to working for Black Cell. Everything else, however, was getting muddled in bloody translation. Also, I didn’t like not having eyes on Sophia.
I was impatient, pissed, and desperate. Not a good combination.
“Time’s up.” I pulled him off the floor.
I yanked open the bathroom door and dragged him out.
“Turn around,” I ordered Sophia, who was guarding the front door. Once she did, I dragged Ron back to the griddle, grabbed the oil, and sprayed the surface. The griddle erupted in flames, the oil popping everywhere.
“No, God, no, no, no.” Ron’s eye, the one that wasn’t swollen shut, rounded in horror. He begged in garbled sobs. “No, no, no ...”
“Stand the hell up.”
Keeping a grip on the back of his collar, I maneuvered behind him and pressed his gut against the lip of the griddle. I’d already tied his hands behind his back, so they were no use to him.
“I’m going to ask you one more time, Ron.”
I twisted his collar. He gasped for air and wept like a child, asking for someone to save him.
Not today.
“Where is Kusma?”
“I—I ...”
“Wrong answer.”
He turned his face a split second before it connected with the griddle. He screamed like a banshee. As his ear and half his face melted on the black surface, his knees buckled, and he shit himself.
“Dammit.” I hopped back, keeping my hold on his shirt collar.
Now I was furious.
I peeled his face from the griddle. The layer that remained cooked like bacon. He vomited everywhere.
