"I'm going to kill him. Tonight."
The casual way he says it chills me. But also something else. Something that feels almost like satisfaction.
"Only him?" I ask carefully.
"Yes. The man who paid five million down on fifteen million total, thinking he could own you." His voice is matter-of-fact, like he's describing a business transaction instead of murder. "He's been sitting in a luxury hotel in Rome for three days, waiting for you to be delivered to him."
The image takes away my appetite. A man in an expensive suite, sipping champagne, waiting for me to arrive like a package. Planning what he'd do with me once I was his property.
"Tell me about him," I say quietly.
Renato studies me for a moment, as if trying to determine whether I really want to know. Then he tells me about the compound in Dubai where Al-Zahrani keeps his collection of women. The isolation periods. The training. How he likes them compliant, broken in gradually. How he specifically requested an Italian aristocrat because of the "breeding value."
"He has other women," I say when he's finished. "Right now. In that compound.”
"Yes."
"And you're just going to kill him? Not help them?"
"I can't save everyone, Camilla. Especially if they’re in another country. But I can make sure he never adds another woman to his collection." Renato pushes off from the counter. "This isn't about justice for all his victims. This is about the fact that he thought he could buy you."
"And if I asked you not to go? Not to kill him?"
"Would you?"
The question hangs between us. Would I? This is a man who keeps women prisoner, who buys and breaks them, who was waiting in Rome to own me. Does he deserve mercy?
Do I want him to have mercy?
"I don't know," I admit finally. "Part of me thinks he deserves whatever you do to him. But another part thinks this isn't about justice. It's about you trying to control something while you feel powerless."
"You're probably right." He moves back to where I'm sitting. "But right or wrong, I can't stop. He paid to own you. Made arrangements. Had plans for what he'd do once Torretti delivered you. That requires an answer paid in blood."
I look up at him—this exhausted, obsessive, violent man who's also standing in his kitchen making me breakfast he learned from his mother. Who's trying so hard to be normal while planning murder.
Who's completely fucked up and somehow still the most honest person in my life right now.
"What about the others?" I ask. "The people who worked for Torretti. The ones who knew about the sale."
"What about them?"
"Are you going to kill them too?"
He's quiet for a moment, considering. "I thought about it. Made a list. Eight people who knew, who facilitated." He runs a hand through his damp hair. "But no. Just Al-Zahrani. The man who thought he could buy you is enough for now. Unless you tell me to kill the others. Then I will, but not without your permission."
Just one man. One death. One message.
It's still insane.
But it's also more focused than I expected. Just the elimination of the man who was waiting in a hotel to own me.
"The eggs were good," I say finally, because I don't know what else to say.
"Yeah?"
"Your mother taught you well."
Something in his expression softens. "She'd probably be horrified by what I've become."
