Page 10 of Falling for the Enemy

“But first...” My eyes meet his as I drop my hand from the faded art and stand once more. “You’re going to tell me exactly, and in exquisite detail, why a man bearing the Colombian cartel’s brand”—I nod to his tattoo—“is snooping around a port belonging to the Fallen Kings.”

The smile that tips my lips is dark and sadistic, the feel of it as familiar as the steady thump of my cold heart. “If you refuse, I’ll order my men to crush every bone you possess before I slice you from stem to stern, then throw you into the ocean, gutted and screaming for the sharks to feast on.”

It’s his only warning.

“Vete a la mierda!” he shouts, basically demanding I go fuck myself after undoubtedly realizing that for him, there is no escape. Only death knocking on his doorstep. “Tú estúpida—”

His mouth audibly snaps shut when Casper’s cupped palm meets his ear from where he stands behind him in a resounding slap. Eardrum likely rupturing from the impact, the man bellows in pain.

Falling to his side, he jerks against his bindings. Watching him fight to free himself brings thoughts of Capone rushing back. I try to push them from my mind but doing so is useless.

My ex-fiancé’s betrayal is embedded in the very marrow of my bones. Months may have passed since I shredded his heart, but the memory of the mistakes I made are as maddening now as they were then.

Failing to capture and kill Stefano only further exasperates my frustration. Like the snake he is, La Famiglia’s boss slithered underground within hours of Casper dumping Capone’s body on his front stoop.

He didn’t even stick around to bury his son.

Since then, I’ve spent each waking moment hunting the coward, killing every Italian mafioso I cross in the process. Unfortunately, the trail went cold quickly.

It won’t stay that way forever, though.

La Famiglia may still have a foothold in North Charleston, though it’s diminishing each day thanks to my men, but the seven-figure price I now have on Stefano’s head will turn even the most loyal soldier into a rat.

Soon, one of his own will bring him to me.

On a silver platter.

Until then, I have business to handle.

“I suggest you speak,” I tell the man, noting the brass knuckles Casper has pulled from his pocket and slid onto his right hand. Like me, he’s eager to unveil the answers we both seek. “Tell me why you’re here, along with who sent you. If not, I promise you that your suffering will increase greatly.”

The man’s wild gaze bores into mine.

“Why should I tell you anything, puta?” A string of crimson-tinged drool slides from his bottom lip to the ground. “I’m dead either way.”

“Da, you are,” I reply truthfully, my patience quickly eroding. Gathering my hair into my hands, I secure it atop my head with a simple black band I slip from my wrist. “But whether you die slowly in addition to painfully, or quickly and with your insides still intact, is entirely up to you.”

When he doesn’t answer, Casper rounds him, coming to stand at my side. One glimpse at the weapon anchored to my bull’s fist, and the man’s eyes widen. Judging by his busted face, I’d say he’s already been introduced to it.

But even knowing the continued pain that each well-placed hit will bring, he still doesn’t speak. His unwillingness to sing like a canary is admirable.

Admirable yet stupid.

I look at Casper and wave my hand, gesturing to the man. “Why must they always be so stubborn?”

He doesn’t answer, but I don’t expect him to. We both know that if the roles were reversed, which in the past, they have been, our lips would remain sealed as well.

No matter the consequences.

The breeze blows a stray lock of hair from my face, the damp air cooling my warming cheeks and neck. “Last chance. Tell me who sent you or else—”

A mixture of phlegm and blood lands on my cheekbone when he spits at me, his aim barely missing my eye. Fury is an understatement for the bone-chilling emotion that washes through me, sending my heart into overdrive as I use the sleeve of my dress to frantically wipe my face free of his filth.

No one treats me with such disrespect.

Casper continues his silence as he crosses the dock and grabs a small metal pipe from where it’s leaned against a wooden light pole. Returning to my side, he hands it to me, a knowing look in his eyes.

I smile, gripping the cold metal tightly. At nearly three-foot-long and around an inch and a half wide, it fits in my hands perfectly. “Just call me Harley Quinn…” I wink at Casper, the smirk that overtakes his face helping to anchor my rage, before turning to face the man once more.

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