That’s better.
I can’t fucking cope with fear. I’ve never felt anything close to the madness seizing my mind. I’ve no idea how to come out on the other side.
But I have to.
I have to get a fucking grip. I can’t fall apart. There’s no time. I need to act fast before that fucking psycho sends another picture.
“Pull it together,” Spades says, squeezing my arm. “She needs you, Dante. Pull it together.”
He helps me up from where I’m kneeling on the ground, making sure I can hold my weight before he hands me my phone and a full clip. I reload the gun to feel like I’m in control. Like I’m still capable of functioning while my world splinters apart.
My hands ball into fists, and my jaw locks, muscles so tense it’s fucking painful. Three deep breaths, and I turn around, a mask of confidence back in place.
My people stand in a group, waiting for orders. Twenty men in front of Delta, thirty more a phone call away.
“What the fuck are you waiting for?!” I bellow. “Find her!”
Nate, Jackson, and Rookie divide people into smaller groups shouting orders. Next to me, Vince is on the phone using his contacts to find Layla. Vinn does the same thing, standing a few feet away, holding a machine gun.
“I want Luca alive!” I yell when everybody rushes to their cars. “Kill everyone else.”
Thirty seconds later, the street fills with the roar of a dozen V8 engines cutting through the peaceful, quiet night. V brothers and Spades stay behind to help me beat the information out of Frank’s pawn.
“Where’s the last of Frank’s men?” I ask.
“In the basement. Luca fucked him up bad.”
The sound of his name boils my blood all over again. I want to kill him with my bare hands, inflicting as much pain as possible. I want to hear him beg for mercy. He better have dug his grave before laying a finger on my girl because that’s where he’ll end up before sunrise.
“I wouldn’t count on him telling us much tonight,” Spades adds. “If I hadn’t dragged Luca out of there when you told me to, he would’ve fucking killed the guy, and now I know why.”
“He’ll talk.” I dial Carlton’s number. “I need you. Right now.” The distraught tone of my voice lets on more about my mental state than I wish to share.
“What the fuck happened?”
“I’ll explain when you get here. Bring something to keep the fucker conscious. Meet me at the club.”
Spades pours a bucket of water over Jack’s head. He chokes and coughs, thrashing in the chair like a retard. Blood trickles down his wrists where the ropes cut through the skin. His used-to-be white t-shirt turned crimson and now lays on the floor, drenched in blood. I’ve been torturing him for an hour. Vinn interjected a few times, using his face for a punching bag. Jack can no longer see. His eyes are swollen shut, and his cheekbones and nose are all broken in at least a few places.
Carlton emptied a syringe into his neck as soon as he arrived. Whatever he gave him worked a treat, stopping Jack from taking the easy way out and fainting. Unfortunately, he’s not eager to talk, testing my already questionable patience. I’ve reached for my gun a few times, but Spades stopped me before I pulled the trigger. Dead, he’s useless.
“I think you’re too delicate,” Vince says. Until now, he stood by the wall, a silent observer.
I glance at him, toying with a long knife. “Be my guest.”
He crosses the room toward a row of cabinets at the back of the basement.
“I’ll wait outside,” Vinn mutters, his face a faint shade of green as he turns to leave.
His brother joins me, armed with a spoon, and my expression probably matches Vinn’s. “Give him another dose,” he tells Carlton.
“His heart will burst.”
Vince rolls his eyes, snatching a syringe out of Carlton’s bag. “He only got twenty milligrams before. He’d need three times that to die.” He shoves the needle into Jack’s neck, tosses the empty syringe, and shimmies out of his suit jacket. He rolls up the sleeves of his white shirt, taking off a gold watch, before gripping a fistful of Jack’s hair and tugging hard, forcing his neck to rest on the back of the chair. “You got a girl?” he asks, sliding the spoon down his forehead. “You remember what she looks like? Of course, you do. Think about her for a minute. Try to remember her smile. Memorize it because you won’t see it again.”
Without warning, asking, or ordering Jack to talk, Vince slides the edge of the spoon under his eye. A horror movie kind of scream—loud, long, blood curdling high-pitched scream fills the room. Vince holds him in place, and a chill runs down my spine when Jack realizes the slightest move will make things worse. He sits there, still as a statue, screaming.
“Stop!” His nails crack when he digs them into the wooden chair. “Stop! Layla’s in the warehouse!”