Page 48 of Cruel Devil

“Then she’s still inside somewhere.”

I just stand there.

It’s been a fuck-long day. My brain is refusing to come up with answers beside the obvious—wait for the club to clear out, and then come back in full force. Search every inch of this place for my wife, and take her home.

At that stage, anyone caught in the crossfire only has themselves to blame. It’s the safer option, but one with a higher chance of Nyx slipping past us.

I’m in half a mind to go back to Liam’s apartment and beat the shit out of him until I’ve exhausted every memory that kid has, in case there’s some tidbit that will help me find her.

But I already know it’ll be a waste of time. He was being honest when he said no one told him anything. It makes sense. If he’s only the low level runner he’s claiming to be, ‘knowing shit’ would be above his pay grade.

I keep coming back to that feeling of loss.

She’s not here anymore. It’s gut instinct.

Nyx wanted to handle this herself, and that’s exactly what she’s doing.

Maybe it’s time I accept that she and I will never be family. That we’re merely two flies caught in the same web.

At least she’s trying to break free.

Meanwhile, I’m just coiling myself tighter.

Chapter 17

Nyx

No matter how many shots you throw, how many hooks you slip, life will always land a calculated jab to the chin the moment you lower your guard.

The world goes white.

Gravity yanks you to the ground.

And there’s nothing you can do but lie there reeling as the ref slaps the canvas.

Donny’s body is sprawled on the concrete floor a few feet away. The heap of guts spilling out of him in thick coils seem too much to ever fit back inside. They look wet and slimy, like they haven’t even dried out yet.

Is his body still warm?

Someone steps forward into the pool of light. He should look ridiculous in his transparent plastic coveralls, but it only highlights how large the man’s body is. The plastic under his soles sticks to Donny’s congealing blood as he walks right through the puddle. It pisses me off when I realize he could have avoided it with just one step to the left. That he chose to walk through it.

When my gaze finally works its way to the man’s face and I catch sight of the cruel curve of his mouth, my stomach bottoms out.

He wears his dark hair longer now, carefully tousled like he spent a while in the mirror laying it out just-so. His face is slimmer, faint crow’s feet at the corner of his intelligent brown eyes. But I recognize him instantly.

Sullivan O’Brien.

Chief of the Irish mob.

He steps closer, stamping another set of footprints on the floor in Donny’s blood.

“Good evening, Mrs. Domingo.” His voice, more than his words, sends a hard jolt through me. It’s darker, more refined than I remember, like the suit and tie visible beneath the plastic coveralls. He looks like a guy killing it in finance. Literally, with the blood splattered all over his arms, legs, and torso.

I’m too dumbstruck to get a word out, even though I’d prepared for this.

Okay. Donny’s guts piled out on the floor of a warehouse wasn’t anywhere near what I was expecting. But the end of this grisly rainbow always had to end with a pot of tainted gold.

O’Brien smirks at me like he’s psychic before stripping out of his plastic overall. I was right about the suit. It’s fuck-off expensive, the kind of threads Vito wears just because he can.

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