I loved her. I loved her! I wanted to love her so badly!
Instead, I was a dead girl.
Kaspar’s hands tightened.
He leaned closer, putting all his weight onto my neck.
Out of time.
Never got a chance.
Never given much.
Penny’s eyes.
So beautiful.
Big and gorgeous.
23
Kaspar
Present Day
Chicago
I crunched over broken glass.
The pizza place was a mess. The windows were bombed out and the tables were kindling. The front counter was riddled with bullet holes and blood covered the ovens like exploded sauce. I avoided puddles of entrails and a couple of corpses, still warm and clutching their guns.
Michaels met me toward the back. “We got him tied up.” My mercenary looked sweaty and very much alive. His eyes shone brightly.
“Take me.”
The back was a giant pantry alongside a walk-in freezer. Maeve’s man was tied up to a chair in the freezer. He wore a nice suit splattered with gore and his lips were blue when I stepped inside.
“Shut this thing off,” I said, gesturing toward the fan.
Michaels relayed my order. Maeve’s man watched me with hard eyes.
A minute later, the freezer stopped humming. It was still cold as fuck, but at least it would be bearable soon.
I crouched down in front of the captive and met his gaze.
I held it. I wanted him to know my face. I was the man that would hurt him, hurt him, hurt him, until he screamed and died or told me what I wanted to know.
Then he’d die.
But first, he had to be given hope.
“You know who I am.”
He nodded, didn’t speak.
“Good. Then you know why I’m here.”
“I can’t tell you where she is.”
“You can, but you won’t.”
“I can’t. If I talked, my family would be killed.”
I glanced at Michaels and gestured him forward. “How many men do we have in the city?”
“A small army, sir.”
“Can you spare ten to protect this man’s family?”
Michaels shrugged. “No problem.”
I gestured back at the prisoner. “There you have it. Tell me where she is.”
“That isn’t enough. Ten men isn’t enough. She’ll get them eventually. I’ve got a wife, two little girls. Maeve will kill all of them. You don’t understand.”
I understood. I knew Maeve. I was Maeve in some ways. We both stood at the top of a very tall mountain and watched our shadows stretch out over the landscape. We were Titans, and everyone else was an ant.
That level of power and influence warped a person’s sense of right and wrong.
I took a knife from a sheath I kept on my belt. It was a good knife. I kept it sharp. It’d been mine for a long time.
Since the night I took it from Alice’s cold, dead fingers.
I held it up so my prisoner could take a nice look. We didn’t speak. I didn’t need to threaten. He knew.
He swallowed and looked at Michaels. “Can you swear they’ll be okay?”
Michaels gestured at me. “Talk to him. I’m furniture.”
“Please,” the prisoner said, returning his attention to me, his eyes radiating a cold desperation. “Promise me.”
“I will do what I can for as long as it’s reasonable.”
He groaned. “Not enough. I might as well die.”
I grabbed his hand. He tried to pull it away, but my grip was iron. I was an Oligarch. I lived to dominate. I held his wrist so hard his hand turned white from a lack of blood. I pressed the knife against the end of his pinky finger, where the knuckle met the palm, and sliced hard.
It came off like the end of an asparagus stalk.
The guy stared, his mouth open in shock. Blood spurted from the wound. Then he screamed.
I hated the screaming. I didn’t release his wrist.
“Talk,” I said. “Where is Maeve?”
“Please,” he moaned. “Please don’t.”
“Next finger won’t be so easy. I’ll start with the tip and work down the knuckles. Most men make it through the ring finger, but few stay conscious much longer past that. We’ll patch you up while you’re out, wait until you come back, then start the process over. There won’t be any escape. I’m a patient man. Now tell me where Maeve is and keep your fingers.”
He sobbed. It was pathetic. I could feel for his plight: I’d take his fingers then his life if he didn’t tell me what I wanted to know, but if he did, Maeve would go after his family.
There was no winning. Poor bastard. I almost felt sorry for him.
But anyone that got involved with an Oligarch understood the risks.
“Okay then.” I pressed the knife against the top knuckle on his ring finger.
“Wait,” he said.
I sliced. It went through and the piece of lifeless body dropped to the floor. Blood fountained down his palm and he screamed.
I released him and stood back. I wiped the knife on my jacket and waited for him to calm down.
He sputtered and cried. He held his battered hand against his chest like a baby. Maybe he wasn’t lying about the family after all.