Page 156 of Remy

She lowers her gaze to her lap. “I’m no mathematician, but you used the retort three time?—”

“Fourteen.”

Her shoulders slump.

“First, I got my hands on one of the cartel. And with a little sulfuric acid influence, I got him to spill the names of all those involved in Flynn’s drive-by.”

She doesn’t quit staring at her hands in her lap.

“I found the Cadillac they used. Kidnapped all four of the men that’d been in that car. Then doused the vehicle in gas and set it to flame while they burned to death inside.”

She exhales a shuddering breath.

“Do you want to know about the others?” I wait for a refusal. Maybe even a naive dismissal of my actions. I get neither. “Number ten was the cartel soldier who gave the order. I slit his throat in a back alley. Nine interrupted the festivities so I took him out with a bullet. Eight, seven, and six were on Wednesday—all cartel members and extended family of those who took Flynn from me.”

She shakes her head while it remains bowed.

Is my heartlessness finally sinking in, Pyro?

“I cremated them together—shoved them all in haphazardly at once.”

Wild eyes turn to me. “Remy?—”

“I repeated the process on Thursday with five, four, and three after I heard word they were about to shoot up my club. And two and one would’ve met with the same disposal but you decided to spend the night at the funeral home, and I couldn’t risk seeing you in that state of mind. So my men ensured they had an ocean burial.”

She holds my stare, brows furrowed, gaze beseeching—for what I don’t know.

“I’m not the type of man you want returning your messages, Ollie. That’s why last week was a mistake. Not for any fault of your own.”

She keeps staring. Quiet. Concerned.

I can’t fucking tolerate her silence anymore.

“Say something,” I demand. “Tell me you understand.”

She returns her attention to her lap.

“Tell me what you’re thinking, Ollie.”

She sighs. “I’m thinking that psychologists would have a field day analyzing the unhealthy thoughts running through my mind.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I still don’t see it. I can’t picture you like that… or maybe I can. Maybe I’m so desensitized to death that I simply don’t care. I just…” She heaves a frustrated breath. “I can’t change the way I feel.”

Annoyance thunders beneath my sternum.

Rumbling, explosive need.

“Make it make sense, Remy.” Her eyes plead.

I can’t.

I’m too fucking angry—at her for being so stupid. At me for being equally moronic.

Her ability to downplay the things I’ve done is as unhinged as me craving a woman who could put my entire family behind bars.

Yet the insanity continues to thrive.

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