I’ve always wanted to do this.
It doesn’t take much to hang him from a beam while frantic noises sound from behind me. As if there’s some father-son magic going on, Marcus wakes up before I have a chance to tape his mouth shut.
He gapes at me like a fish while his dad screams under duct tape behind me. “Who—What—"
I slap duct tape over his mouth. “Missed me, asshole?”
I hum to their begging, taking my time to walk up to the dining table where my tools lay on full display. My fingers dance, pondering which instrument I want to use tonight. Hammer? Pliers? Saw? Knife? The options are endless.
Knife, I decide. Can’t beat the classics.
I push the blade into the tip of my finger without breaking my glove, glancing back at Marcus. I ignore Greg, who’s uselessly trying to get out of his restraints, desperately screaming until his face flushes in rage.
I remove Marcus’s tape. “Roman. You’re—you—" He stumbles over his words. His attention darts to the knife in my hand, and the color drains from his skin. “You shouldn’t be out.”
I grin and cock my head to the side. “Shouldn’t I?”
Fuck yeah, I shouldn’t be. I don’t know how the hell Rico’s lawyer managed to shave half a year off my sentence, yet here we are.
He gulps, and the rise and fall of his chest becomes more obvious. “You still have three months.”
My brows hike up—not that he’d be able to see past the mask. Imayhave left the part about my freedom coming earlier than expected out of my letters. “And how would you know that?”
“The letters you—" He shuts his mouth.
There it is. “Did Isabella share them with you?”
He doesn’t respond, but I know the answer is no. Bella wouldn’t share them with him—or anyone—unless someone held a gun to her head. I creep closer until the blade grazes his skin. He jerks away from the knife, only to swing right back to me. “Look, man—" he stutters.
“What did you do with the letters?” I ask in a friendly tone, focusing my attention on the knife as I swirl it over his skin.
He squirms. “I don’t remember.”
I click my tongue. “Are you sure you want to lie to me, Marcus?”
“I swear, I—"
My hand clamps over his mouth while I dip the blade into him. Blood blossoms beautifully against his pale skin, despite his thrashing and pathetic attempts to get away. “Do I need to ask you again?”
He shakes his head and mumbles something. Greg continues his fruitless struggles to save himself and his son behind me. If I don't wrap this up soon, they’re going to wake Bella.
“I’m going to move my hand, and you’re going to be a good little boy and not make a peep unless I tell you to. Isn’t that right?” I say as if I were speaking to a child.
He nods like a blubbering mess.
“Where?” The one word makes him shudder.
“Under my bed,” he whimpers as crimson drips from the wound on his stomach.
I stiffen.Excuse me?Is he saying that he took my letters away from her or that Bella never received them to begin with?
“Tell me, Marcus.” I speak as if I’m amenable enough to reason, like there may be a possibility he walks out of here alive. “What are the letters doing in your room? And I wouldn’t lie if I were you.” I wave the blood-stained knife in front of his face as a warning.
Tears well in his eyes while switching his attention between me and his somewhat unharmed father. “We, uh.” He takes a ragged breath. “We saw Isa got mail, and we, um.”
I don’t need to turn around to know that Greg is shaking his head. “Yes?” I graze the tip of the blade along his chest.
“We—we were going to throw them away, but we decided to keep them,” he says quickly.
