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“Shut up.”

“Is that the best you can do?” the prisoner demanded, his voice husky from the drugs and the struggle. “Christ, you are all idiots.”

A dense blow struck flesh. Air burst from the man’s lungs in a harsh grunt.

Then he laughed.

“You’ll need more men than this, you useless cunts.”

His accent carried both Irish and American influences, but the rough cadence and rounded vowels were unmistakably Irish beneath his anger. My mother had taught me English before my father replaced her lessons with rules, so I understood every filthy word the stranger threw at his captors.

Unhurried footsteps approached down the corridor. The heavy door groaned open, then slow, measured steps entered the room.

The guards stopped talking.

Silence followed Father wherever he went. The men around him had learned the cost of giving him anything less than their full attention.

“Take off his hood,” my father ordered.

Fabric rustled.

“Lachlan Byrnes.”

The name came through the shaft clearly, and I stored it away with every other detail that might matter.

“Aye, Delgado,” the prisoner answered. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

Father let the sarcasm pass, at least for now.

“You know why you’re here.”

“Because Nikolai Volkov burned your brothel and wounded your pride?”

“The club can be rebuilt,” my father said. “I took a Syndicate captain from beneath Volkov’s own security’s noses. A Byrnes in chains is worth far more than any building. Now we’ll see how much Volkov is willing to lose to get you back.”

“Then you’ve misread the man. Nik doesn’t take kindly to threats. When he comes for me, he’ll bury you.”

No sound came through the shaft for several beats. My father had mutilated men for less, yet Lachlan’s threat went unpunished.

What made Lachlan Byrnes valuable enough for Ciro Delgado to let it pass?

“He took merchandise worth millions from my auction, and that will not go unanswered.” My father’s voice had an unfamiliar edge, sending a chill down my spine.

Lachlan gave a short, humorless laugh. “Lacey was never yours.”

Of course my father had called her merchandise. Men in my father’s world spoke of women as property so casually that they rarely bothered lowering their voices around me. Girls belonged to Ciro. Women belonged to buyers. Wives belonged to husbands. Even I belonged to my father because his blood ran through my veins.

“The Sacrifice was mine,” my father said. “The women inside it were mine. Volkov killed my soldiers, burned my club, and stole what I intended to sell.”

“Women aren’t products for you to sell.”

“Everything has a price.”

“Sounds as though you’re shit at protecting your investments.”

Movement broke out below, but my father’s quiet “Wait” stopped it.

“The fire was only the beginning,” my father said. “Your Syndicate has cost me territory, shipments, men, and allies whose patience is wearing thin. Then your brother returned from Madrid with records that could destroy men far more powerful than Nikolai Volkov.”