Page 117 of Filthy Little Games

“Yes.”

“Send it.”

“Done,” Dre agrees once it goes through.

I have to give it to the bastard; Emilio doesn’t shed a tear as we wind down the end of his life. Despite all the awful shit he’s done, the fact that he actually loved his family and didn’t want his wife to learn his secret or his last son to die, will make my life easier by framing his death as a mourning father’s suicide rather than vengeance.

“Can we trust you with the knife or do you need help with that too?” I ask the bastard.

“You swear they won’t find out?”

“I swear it on my father’s grave.” While I could easily break that promise, since I don’t give a shit about my old man, I won’t tell his family. Only hurt will come from the disgusting truth. Not to mention, it would raise more questions about Izaiah and Emilio’s death possibly causing them to point fingers at Zara.

“Then do it already,” Emilio grumbles.

“Dre?” I ask, since he’s already over there. “Will you do the honors?”

“The honors of slicing up my future wife’s asshole father? Sure, why the hell not,” he mutters, sounding more put out about this than Emilio.

“Make it look real.”

Nodding, Dre picks up the knife in his gloved hand, then wrapsEmilio’s right hand and fingers around it. As he places the sharp edge to the man’s wrist, Zara turns around on her hands and knees to watch.

“Good riddance,” she says, having the final word before Dre makes the cut with one hand, then the other. All that’s left is to wait.

“Oriana?” Zara asks me, as if we’re not watching the life drain from the son of a bitch. Dre lets go, and he drops to the floor, the knife clattering.

Putting the guns down on the table, I take out my phone and check my messages from Tristan as I go over and kneel in front of Zara, glad I can give her more good news. “She’s on the way to the penthouse with the nannies, Tristan, and several of my men.”

“I’m so glad the nannies are okay too. And the guns…?”

“Not a single shot was fired in front of her.”

“Oh, thank god. No, thank you, Creed. I knew you’d save her for me.”

“You can see her safe and sound back at the penthouse soon.”

“Good. Thank fuck you were nearby.”

“I had a cop trace Emilio’s phone, narrowing down the location,” I explain.

“I hoped you were coming…but wasn’t sure how long it would take.”

I gently grasp her face between my hands. “How badly are you hurt? What the hell did he do to you, baby?”

“He wanted me to admit that you killed Izaiah. I didn’t, though. I wouldn’t…”

“God, I’m so fucking sorry,micetta mia.”

It’s my fault he hurt her. And my sweet, beautiful wife refused to give in, to give me up, even though she knew he’d keep hurting her, knew he already suspected me. That’s how damn strong this woman is; she refuses to let anyone break her.

Zara takes a deep breath and winces. “It’s just a few brokenfingers and toes.” Holding up her right hand, it’s clear two digits are curled in the wrong direction. “This is the worst, only because it may never heal.” She gestures to her tattered shirt, revealing her mangled chest... and that son of a bitch’s name written,burnt, into her skin.

“Fuck, baby. Fuck,” Tears well up in my eyes now that it’s all over. I blink them away, refusing to cry for her when she’s the one who endured the pain and survived it. And I sure as hell don’t want her to know how much I loathe seeing Izaiah’s name on her beautiful, perfect body instead of her cute freckles.

“We’ll find you a doctor tonight. Then get a plastic surgeon to fix the damage. Or a tattoo artist. We could get a design drawn to cover it.”

“You don’t want to touch me while his name is on me, do you?” she whispers.

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