The interrogation room door was just ahead. Through the small window, I could see the prisoner hunched over, trying to conserve body heat.
I opened the door.
The mechanical sound echoed off concrete. The prisoner's head jerked up. His eyes went wide when he saw me.
I walked in slowly, letting him see the cane, the gloves, the careful way I moved. Let him think I was weak.
The lock engaged with a heavy click.
I pulled the chair directly in front of the prisoner and sat down, letting my cane rest across my lap.
He was shivering. Scared. But still defiant.
That would change.
"Mr. Castellanos," I said quietly. "My name is Algerone Caisse-Etremont. And you're going to tell me everything."
Castellanos went very still,and all the color drained from his face. He knew the name. Everyone in the weapons industry knew it.
Algerone let the silence stretch.
"Mr. Caisse-Etremont." Castellanos's voice cracked. "I didn't—I was just hired to—"
"You stole from me." Algerone flexed a fist, and the leather of his gloves creaked. "Seven billion dollars. Do you even comprehend that number, Mr. Castellanos?"
The prisoner's Adam's apple bobbed.
"I didn't think so." The cane tapped once and vibrated through the floor into my bones. "But you're going to help me understand exactly how this happened."
Then his hands moved to his jacket buttons, undoing them one at a time. The jacket slid away, and he draped it carefully over the back of a nearby chair.
He reached into his pocket and withdrew four heavy rings, sliding them on one at a time over the gloves. The memory ofSingapore struck like a bruise being pressed: his head in my lap after we'd lost three men, whiskey on his breath, the moment before I turned away and chose the empire over everything else.
"This should be interesting," Reid said beside me.
The comment forced me back. Reid stood close enough to hear any shift in my breathing, close enough to see if control slipped. I was forty-eight years old, COO of a weapons manufacturer, not some infatuated subordinate watching his employer prepare for interrogation. The distinction felt increasingly theoretical.
Algerone rolled back his sleeves. "You see these?" He held up his ringed hand. Even through the glass, the flat surfaces meant for breaking bone caught the light. "I'm going to ask you questions. How honest you are determines how often I use them. Understand?"
Castellanos nodded frantically.
The first blow came without warning. The crack echoed through the speaker, blood sprayed across concrete, and the prisoner's head snapped sideways hard enough that his neck popped.
Heat spread through my gut, and my cock twitched. Not shock or revulsion, but the first stirring of an erection.
He moved through violence the same way he moved through boardrooms, his certainty absolute, his efficiency devastating. Each strike was purposeful, and each pause was calculated. This was Algerone at his most essential: power made physical, authority made undeniable.
My cock stirred against my thigh.
"Wrong answer." His breathing stayed even while mine had gone ragged. "Let's try again. Who hired you?"
"Shaw." Castellanos spat blood. "Gideon Shaw."
I shifted my weight, trying to ease the growing pressure in my pants without drawing Reid's attention. The movement onlymade it worse. Fabric dragged against sensitive flesh, and I had to clench my jaw to keep my expression neutral.
Algerone circled behind the prisoner and grabbed a fistful of hair, wrenching the man's head back to expose his throat. The casual brutality of the gesture sent another pulse of heat straight to my groin.
Permission.The word surfaced unbidden. I wanted permission to kneel, to serve, to be allowed even for a heartbeat to give myself to the man whose forgiveness I would never deserve.
