Right.
“This little piggy had none.” I hum the melody, a sick jolt of satisfaction running down my spine when the nail comes off in a sloppy tear.
Given Phill is Octavius’s truck driver, it’s admirable that he’s lasted four nails. We know what he does, but Carter wants details: times, dates, who oversees the deliveries, how many guns are involved. He’s looking for patterns in Octavius’s behavior, hoping for a good time and place to hit.
I could ask him in plain old English if he’s ready to talk, but pain is a language in itself. One I’m fluent in, so I know he’s not there yet. Close, but notthere.
He’ll signal me when he crosses the line. No need for polite requests or losing my focus. I roll my neck and wipe my forehead with the back of my wrist.
“Here we go again,” I tell him, grabbing his thumb.
He whimpers, shaking like he’s been locked in a freezer for hours. His pupils blow wide, but he’s still putting up a fight.
“Relax, sweetheart. I could’ve started with your teeth.” I position the pliers, lining them up under the nail. “This little piggy cried wee, wee, wee...” I yankhard, Phill tries to echo my pig squeal impressions through the rag, “...all the way home.”
He thrashes against the brand-new leather restraints. His eyes crisscross, and more muffled screams pierce my ears as blood pours down his hand, dripping onto the filthy concrete.
“You think he’s ready?” Broadway pushes away from the wall, popping a cigarette into his mouth.
Ryder stays perched on the metal table behind Phill’s back, much more comfortable enjoying the show from the sidelines.
“As entertaining as this is, I don’t have all night,” Broadway adds, blowing a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling.
Fuckingfine.
Any other night I’d tell him to shut up and wait. I love a good torture session. Normally, I could sit here for hours, but now Leilani’s under my roof, I’d rather be home with her.
“Alright, let’s see.” I rise to my feet, rolling out my shoulders. “Ready to chat, Phill?”
He nods like his life depends on it.
Good choice, because it does.
Broadway yanks the gag out. “Talk.”
“I—I don’t know much...” he gasps, voice cracking. “I swear, I’m just a truck driver, man. Grey calls, I pick shit up, drop it off, cash in hand.”
“You’ll have to do better than that.” I step closer, pressing my knife against his throat, the blade glistening under the industrial lights. “What, where, and when?”
His eyes dart between us. “I have a regular monthly pickup at the docks. There’s a container waiting but I don’t know what’s in it! I swear! It’s sealed, no markings.”
“We know what’s in it,” Ryder pipes in. “Women. From Europe. Does Octavius oversee the pickup or the drop-off?”
“No, no, it’s his brother. He’s been doing it for a couple of years now. Sick bastard.”
“Anton?” I ask, spitting the name out.
“Yeah, that’s right. He’s messed up.Seriouslymessed up. Something’s wrong upstairs.”
My grip on the blade tightens.
“He’s worse lately,” Phill continues. “Rumor is Octavius took away his girl. He had some teenage girl locked up for years, Leilani or whatev—”
I drive the knife into Phill’s neck, slicing clean through the artery, and jump back as blood gushes down his chest.
“Koby,fuck!” Broadway punches my shoulder once Phill goes still and finally quiet. “What did I say when we got here? I saiddon’t fucking kill him!”
“Sorry. My hand slipped.” I pull a clean, white cloth from my back pocket, wiping the seven-inch blade clean. “Wasn’t on purpose.”
