Page 7 of We Will Rise

With a deep breath, I head down into the garage and then down the stairs that lead to the basement.

They may have thought I was asleep while they were talking, but I was hyperaware of every sound, and as soon as they started talking, I was wide awake.

When I reach the bottom step, I’m surprised to find Elias sitting by the door to the room the Legion uses for interrogating people.

Surprise fills his dark eyes the moment they land on me. “Camilla, what are you doing down here?”

“I want to talk to him.”

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

“Elias, with all due respect, I don’t care what you think is a good idea right now.” I cringe internally at how rude I sound, but if I’ve ever needed to be the cold Mafia queen I was brought up to be, it’s right now.

“Don’t you think one of the guys will want to be here for this?”

I shrug. “They’re getting some rest, and I can’t sit around any longer.”

He watches me for a moment, his eyes flicking down to where his phone is resting on his knee. He’s no doubt considering letting Crew know I’m down here, but he seems to decide against it.

“Do you want any help?”

“No. I’ve got this.” I give him a halfhearted smile, but my lips barely twitch. It’s not like I have a whole lot to be happy about right now, and I hope he understands that and doesn’t tell Leighton what a bitch I’ve been to him.

When all this is done and dusted, I’d like to still have a friend. If I survive it at all, that is.

I pause at the door, taking a second to slip my mask into place. Whoever is on the other side of the door isn’t going to see a woman who just lost the man she loves. They’re going to meet the queen who will stop at nothing to keep her kingdom safe.

I push it open and slip inside before closing the door behind me. I turn to lean against it with my arms crossed over my chest as I take in the room.

A man hangs from the purpose-built bars above his head, his body stretched so tight his bare toes barely graze the cold concrete beneath us.

His almost naked body shivers, and there’s a tinge of satisfaction that he’s uncomfortable. That’s exactly how I want him. That’s how he deserves to feel.

Dark eyes lock with mine, but I don’t say anything. I hold his gaze with a raised brow, waiting for the moment the false sense of safety fills him. Every man I’ve ever tortured has had the same look when I’ve walked into the room.

Oh, she’s a young woman, there’s no way she’ll hurt me.

Maybe I can reason with her.

If I can just get out of these binds, I can make her pay for thinking she can play with the big boys.

I don’t need to be able to read their minds to know exactly what they’re thinking, because they’re predictable as hell, and half the time they say the first stupid thing that comes to their minds.

The look flicks across his face, and a smirk tugs at his lips.

Asshole.

“Are the adults busy?” he gripes.

I don’t bother responding as I push off the door and move toward the table of objects the guys use to torture their victims. It’s a good spread, but there are a few things missing that I’d like to add if I’m going to be doing my own work here too.

A hacksaw.

A few more scalpels.

A smaller blowtorch. Those ones chefs use for crème brûlée are the perfect size to make even the strongest of men scream.

The chains rattle as he tries to turn to see what I’m doing, but my body is likely in the way, blocking his view of the instruments I’m choosing between.

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