I almost smile. “Deal.”
I open the car door and step out into the cool evening air. The guards at the gate watch me approach, hands resting on their weapons. I’m a college girl in a cream sweater walking intoa compound full of killers. I look soft, sheltered, and completely out of my depth.
But looks can be deceiving.
The gate swings open, and I walk inside.
The compound is larger than I expected. Several buildings arranged around a central courtyard, all dark brick and iron gates. Guards everywhere, watching me with cold curiosity as a soldier escorts me toward the main building.
Inside, the décor is surprisingly elegant but spartan. Raw concrete walls smoothed to silk. Steel and glass. Not a single unnecessary object in sight. The kind of minimalism that costs more than excess ever could. It’s nothing like the rough biker bar we just left. This is where the real power lives.
The soldier leads me down a hallway and stops at a heavy wooden door. Knocks twice.
“Enter.”
I recognize that voice. Soft, accented, dangerously calm.
The soldier opens the door and gestures me inside.
Dashamir Dervishi sits behind a large desk, papers spread before him, a glass of neat vodka at his elbow. He looks exactly as he did last night, his eyes tracking my every movement.
“Adora Montoni.” He says my name like he’s tasting it. “Or should I call you doe?”
The pet name hits me like a slap. Dashamir knows exactly what Vincenzo calls me in his softest moments. I feel sickened as I wonder how he knows it, but I refuse to let him see how much that rattles me. “I prefer Miss Montoni.”
“I am disappointed in myself,” Dashamir continues as though I haven’t spoken. “I’ve been scouring Malus for Vincenzo’s woman. I didn’t guess that you were the tramp he brought to the fight, even after I saw your picture.”
He holds up a phone, and I realize with a jolt that it’s Vincenzo’s. On the screen is a text exchange that includes a formal picture of me.
“Please, sit,” Dashamir invites me graciously.
I take the chair across from him, grateful my legs don’t shake. “Where’s Vincenzo? Is he alive?”
He studies me for a long moment. “I must admit, I’m curious about you. When my men told me Agnello Montoni’s daughter wanted an audience, I assumed your father would try to assassinate me. And yet here you are, alone, no weapons, no backup. You’re either very brave or very stupid.”
“Just tell me he’s all right,” I say, struggling to stay strong and keep the pleading out of my voice, “and then we can talk.”
“You can see him for yourself.”
Dashamir turns his laptop toward me. On the screen is a video feed. A small room, concrete walls, harsh lighting.
And Vincenzo.
My heart seems to stop.
He’s tied to a chair, slumped forward, barely conscious. Blood is matted in his dark hair. His face is swollen and bruised, one eye nearly shut. His shirt is gone, and I can see dark bruises blooming across his ribs.
But the worst part is his hands. His fingers are bloody, raw, the nails missing from at least two of them. The flesh beneath is exposed and weeping.
I feel like I’m going to be sick.
“He’s quite resilient,” Dashamir says calmly. “Refused to tell me anything useful. I was beginning to think he’d rather die than talk.”
There’s a flicker of a smile around his lips. This monster actually finds this funny.
He leans back in his chair. “So. What information could you possibly have that would make me release Vincenzo Vici? I presume that’s what you want.”
I force myself to look away from the screen and meet Dashamir’s cold eyes.
