Hell no.
But it feels right to have my firefly here.
Yet they’ve said nothing.They’ve only had my back.
“We’re all going with you.”
That’s family. Fuck, that’s my family.
“Sleep it off,” I murmur and kiss her sweet forehead. She smells like roses.
With one last look, I stride out of the room and down to where Mateo is waiting. Julian and Carson are already at the cell.
We take the elevator to the basement. Each of our main properties has a room just like this one for interrogation purposes. Hooks hang from the ceiling for strapping men up. A few wooden chairs sit off to the side of the room. There’s a drain in the middle and a workbench placed next to the chair where the man who tried to hurt my firefly is tied up, already swollen andbloody.
“You started without us,” I say casually as I approach the man. I shove my hands in my pockets as I stare down at him.
“Just warmed him up a bit,” Carson says from where he leans casually against the wall.
Julian is at the workbench, pulling out tools, and Mateo walks behind him.
We have four men outside the door. We won’t need them, but they’re there, just in case.
“I’m going to start nicely,” I inform him, looking into his hard brown eyes. I can already tell he has no intention of speaking.
That will pass when I start to skin him.
“Fuck you,” he growls, and I nod, then pace away two strides before I take my jacket off and toss it aside. I’m still wearing all of my weapons from the op in LA.I still have blood on my shirt.That will have to go before my girl wakes up.
I tug off my tie and roll my sleeves before I turn back around, and when the man looks at me again, his eyes narrow.
“I know you,” he says.
“Do you?” I lift an eyebrow. “I’m intrigued. Who am I?”
He tips his head to the side as if trying to place me. “You’re Alexander.” He looks around the room. “Why do the Kings of Vegas give a shit what I do with that little slut?”
I backhand him and watch with satisfaction when blood flies out of the corner of his mouth.
“I’mthe one asking questions.”
He spits blood onto my shoe, then grins up at me. His teeth are red. “I’m not in the mood to answer them.”
“No?”
I nod and walk over to Julian, who hands me a cleaver off the tool bench.
In one smooth move, I sever three of his fingers from his left hand, and he wails in pain.
“Good one,” Carson says with a satisfied nod. “You always have the best aim. You must spend a lot of time practicing.”
“It’s an art form,” Mateo adds.
“That probably hurts,” I agree, eyeing the hand bleeding down the chair and onto the concrete floor. “Who do you work for?”
He shakes his head.
“You’re about to loseallof your fingers, and I don’t like repeating myself,” I inform him. “Who do you work for?”
