Page 75 of Victorious Vice

Mario?

As evil as my biological father is, I don’t believe he would kill someone who means so much to me.

Who else is close to home?

There’s Austin Bellamy, of course. But no way would he allow his own daughter to be harmed.

What am I not seeing?

“Are you supposed to take her tonight?” I ask.

He doesn’t reply.

I cock the trigger. “You’d better start talking.”

He cocks his head in mock contemplation. “If I talk, you’ll kill me anyway. If I don’t talk, you’ll never get the information you need. So not talking is my better option.”

I move the nose of the gun away from his temple and pistol whip him across the head. He grunts and falls to the ground. I stand over him, kicking hard at his abdomen.

He curls into a fetal position, choking.

“Still don’t want to talk?” I say.

He groans, gulping in air. His grin is gone now, replaced with a grimace of pain. He spits out a mouthful of blood and glares up at me with dark, feral eyes.

“No,” he gasps.

I kneel beside him, pressing my knee into his chest. “Maybe this will change your mind.” I place the nose of my gun against his forehead.

But he just laughs—a hollow, bitter sound. “Go ahead and shoot. It won’t change anything. You can’t stop what’s coming.”

The threat hidden behind his words sends a snake-like shiver down my spine. I pull back the hammer of my gun, but it’s not fear that makes me pause—it’s the warning in his voice. It awakens something deep within my gut.

“Last chance,” I whisper into his ear. “Talk or die.”

He laughs once more, a rasping sound that echoes down the corridor. I wait for a moment, looking for any hint of surrender in his eyes. But there’s only defiance.

“Die then,” I say calmly.

He doesn’t flinch as I ready to squeeze the trigger, but the shot never comes. An iron grip wraps around my wrist, pulling the gun just as I fire. The silencer eases the noise, but the bullet ricochets off the marble floor, missing its mark by mere inches.

My heart hammers as I turn to face the new threat—a towering figure whose face is hidden by shadows. I strain to get a glimpse of him, but the dim corridor offers little light.

“Not yet,” the man says, his voice a low rumble that barely registers above the ringing in my ears. He sounds familiar, yetoddly foreign. There’s a casualness in his tone that contradicts his harsh action.

I try to break free from his grip, but it’s strong, like iron.

“What the fuck?” I turn to see the face of the man who stopped me from shooting the asshole.

And I gasp.

25

RAVEN

“It’s a beautiful piece,” Robin says.

I read the engraving again.

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