“Yes," the man answers. "Sedated. Matei said to tell you he brought this from Germany himself.”
My pulse kicks, the faintest flicker of anticipation threading through. If this person is connected to my father’s death, I’ll rip every piece of truth out of them inch by inch before I kill them.
I turn my head toward my men standing near the house. "Bring this piece of shit down to the basement and secure them. I'll be down shortly."
They move without question, storming the SUV as I step back. The Romanian watches but doesn't interfere as two of my guys reach into the trunk and haul out the body. It doesn’t make a sound, not even a groan.
The men carry the body toward the house and the man shuts the trunk, gives me a nod, and climbs back into his SUV. The engine revs and he's gone before I even turn around.
I stand there for a moment, breathing in the cold air, watching the taillights disappear down the drive.
Then I pull out my phone and send a text to Declan.
Text me when you're up. Think I've got something.
I don't expect a response now. He'll see it when he wakes. For now, I need to focus.
I head back inside and make my way upstairs. My bedroom is still dark, the bed unmade, sheets twisted from restless sleep that never really came. I strip off the clothes I threw on and grab the clothes I keep for this kind of work.
Black jeans. Dark shirt. Things I don't mind getting blood on.
As I pull them on, my mind is already cycling through what comes next. Interrogation tactics. Pressure points. How much pain before someone breaks. How long I'm willing to wait for answers.
Whoever is down there, whoever Matei sent, is connected to my father's murder. Has to be. Otherwise, why send them at all?
I think about the black feather I have hidden in the closet. The Morrígan Order. The cold, sterile room in Berlin where I identified my father's body.
My jaw tightens.
I'll get whatever I need out of them, no matter what it takes.
I finish dressing and head downstairs, down the hall, and toward the locked stairwell that leads to the lowest level. The air grows colder as I descend, stone walls absorbing the heat and sound of the house above.
At the bottom, one of my men, Tommy, a solid kid who's been with us for five years, is standing at the bottom of the stairs. He looks up as I approach and there's something off about his expression.
Not fear. Not exactly.
More like discomfort.
"What's up?" I ask as I approach him.
Tommy shakes his head, glancing toward the door I'm about to walk through. "Nothing. I just, well, you'll see."
Anger rises in me.
That motherfucker inside better be connected to this and alive. Because if Matei wasted my time, I’ll end him before sunrise in Bucharest.
I push past Tommy without another word and shove the heavy door open, and step into the same room I held Octavian in recently.
I step inside, expecting a monster.
Expecting someone dangerous. Someone who deserves what's coming.
What I see instead stops me cold.
A woman.
She looks small and wears a torn robe smeared with dirt and blood. Her hands are bound behind her back. Her hair is a dark, tangled mess around her shoulders. Her face, what I can see of it, is pale, streaked with dried tears and blood. A bruise sits along her cheekbone.
