Meet Anderson—and fucker Michael—and kill Leslie-bitch? And with Calvano’s blessings? I feel like Alice in Wonderland who just got high.
I step outside his office, feeling my ego soaring.
Even with her in my life and pretending I’m something better, the itch never went away. It just sits there, carved in my brain, reminding me how good it would feel to hurt someone on purpose. Ah, that sick, smug certainty that I’d enjoy every second of it and never feel bad after.
I still get off on the idea of it. Breaking bones, hearing begging turn into noise, watching the light die while I decide when it’s enough. That part of me never weakened for her. If anything, it got greedier.
Because now, the fantasy has a target.
Now, it’s personal.
Some idiot put their hands on her and signed themselves up for whatever’s been rotting inside me, waiting for an excuse.
Suddenly, Wes shoves me back against the wall and presses the gun up my jaw like it’s supposed to scare me this time.
That trick gets old fast.
“Well, this is getting intimate.” I grin widely.
“What did he ask you to do?” he hisses, his amber eyes widening.
“You’re running out of tricks, Leslie.”
“Answer the fucking question!” he shouts, pressing the gun harder against my skin.
I shrug. “Same old, boring errands.”
“Why don’t I believe you?”
“Oh, thank God. You do have survival instincts. Sort of.”
He cocks the hammer. Repetition is the mother ofnotlearning, after all. “It would be so easy for me to blow up your brains?—”
“Wanna have some fun?” I cut him off.
“What?”
“Fun, dude. When was the last time you tortured someone?”
The pressure from the gun loosens a bit as if I said the magic word and triggered some dead-ass feelings in this fucker. Feels refreshing, I won’t lie.
“Elaborate,” he says, pushing the gun back into his waistband.
I exhale, jaded. “Calvano said the package had to come from Anderson himself. Emphasis on ‘himself.’ Anderson put his hands on Isabella. That ended any restraint I had and bought him a personal delivery.”
“By the way, really, dude?” He scrunches his face. “Calvano’s daughter?”
“Are you in or out?” I say through clenched teeth, trying to remain composed and stick to my plan.
“So, what are you going to tell Calvano when Anderson turns up with his throat slashed?”
“Do you really care?”
“I don’t give a shit. When this goes sideways—and it will—don’t drag my name into it.”
“Great.” I clap my hands once, then rub them together. “I’ll drive.”
On the rideto Anderson’s mansion, we passed the first checkpoint at the gate and were let through without trouble. Nobody there has a clue how bloody the night is about to get.
