“Sergio,” Salvatore says, eyeing the big guy on the floor.
I don’t want her to see what’s about to happen. “Give me a minute.”
The soldier I sent for the car returns.
“Put her in the backseat,” I say, standing, bringing Natalie with me. She’s shivering. In shock maybe. “And stay with her.”
“No,” she says clinging to me. “No. I just want to go home. I want you to take me home. You.”
“I need you to wait in the car for me. I need to take care of this before I can take you home.”
She shakes her head, her nails dig into the back of my neck. Her eyes are saucers, her terror palpable.
“Nat.” I know she hates being called that, but she doesn’t even acknowledge it. Her gaze keeps bouncing to the man I’m going to hurt and each time, more tears well inside her eyes. “I need to take care of this. I need you to wait for me out in—”
“Do it,” she says. She locks her eyes on the man and there’s a darkness inside them that wasn’t there before.
“You don’t want—”
She shifts her gaze to mine. “I want you to do it.”
I study her. She doesn’t even blink, but returns her gaze to the man. She knows what I’m going to do.
“Look away,” I say.
“No.”
“Natalie, there are things you can’t unsee.”
“Don’t you understand?” she asks, looking up at me. “I want to see. I need to.”
Her eyes are stone.
I nod. Salvatore’s watching us. I read what he’s thinking on his face. This is fucked up.
When I walk to the brute on the floor, I take out my pistol and cock it and, without a word, I shoot his other knee. As loud as his scream is, I still hear Natalie’s over it.
She wants to see.
She wants to see what I’m capable of.
What a monster I can be.
“Sergio,” Salvatore puts a hand on my shoulder. “I can finish this.”
I shrug it off. “No.” I crouch down next to the man. “You want to die slow or you want to die fast? Because you’re dying tonight. It’s just up to you how.”
“Please. Please. Mr. Suit. He hired me to watch the pretty girl. I didn’t touch her. I didn’t touch her. It’s the rules.”
I know he’s mentally not all there, but I don’t give a fuck. See, this is what makes me a monster. I have no compassion. Not when someone takes what’s mine. Not when someone hurts what’s mine.
“What’s his name?”
He shakes his head, confused. “Mr. Suit.”
I’m losing patience. I grip his filthy T-shirt. Drag him up by the collar of it. “What the fuck is Mr. Suit’s name, asshole?”
He starts crying, sobbing. “Mr. Suit,” he says over and over again.
