Page 74 of Hunted Vengeance

“What if I accidentally do it at the wrong time and shoot my foot off or something,” I whisper, my gaze no doubt as horrified-looking as I feel.

“Don’t squeeze the trigger, and that won’t happen,” he deadpans.

I blink, unsure that he’s just said what he has, but he has, and he’s serious. Meanwhile, I’m a trembling, shaking mess. Grayson shakes his head, then his gaze connects to mine, and I suck in a breath, holding it as he speaks.

“Listen, Colette. You don’t have to go in there. You can stay right here and lock the door. I’m going in whether you do or not. My gut is telling me that this is where I need to be.”

I have no doubt that his gut is telling him all kinds of things because mine is screaming at me to do something, but I’m not sure what I can do. Standing up to my father is one thing. Surviving his wrath is another.

Wrapping my fingers around the handle of the gun, I’m careful not to slip my finger where the trigger is, and I open the car door before I unfold from my seat. Standing, I look around for a moment. We’re alone, but that doesn’t mean we aren’t being watched.

As soon as I climb the stairs to the front door, it opens. One of my father’s men stands on the other side, unable to hide his initial surprise at seeing me there in front of him. Wordlessly, he steps to the side and lets us into the house.

I’m surprised, but I refuse to let it show. “They’re in the office,” he murmurs.

Grayson clears his throat, no doubt doing some sort of manly chin lift behind me, but I don’t look to check. Instead, I move onward and forward toward the office. The door is closed when we approach, but I can hear men’s voices and whimpering, which means the gang is all here.

I reach for the handle and tug it down, then push it open before I step inside, Grayson right behind me and ready for whatever is about to come our way, but likely his way because I already know that I’m not going to be good for a damn thing.

“Colette,” my father announces. “You’re here just in time to help me with this deal.”

I would say it’s a lie, that my father would never need me for any kind of deal, business or otherwise, but this entire catastrophe proved otherwise.

“Just do whatever needs to be done and get me to a fucking doctor,” Malcolm grinds out. Nobody responds to him, mainly because I’m pretty sure everyone here knows he will never need a doctor, not today, not ever again.

“What do you want?” the stranger says. His voice is much calmer, his tone more even. “I can give you anything.”

My father pushes off where he’s leaning against the desk and walks over to the stranger. I don’t know who he is or what he does, but he’s clearly important. Of course he is, because nothing about this was happenstance.

Nothing.

“I want to be the deputy secretary of state,” my father announces. I don’t know much about politics, but I’m pretty sure they aren’t going to give anything that high to my father, the head of a Mafia family.

“Impossible,” the man says.

My father smirks. “You’re the secretary of state. Make it happen, or everything goes public.”

Shit.

I didn’t know that.

Something flutters in my belly. It flips and flops, then clenches. My father sold me to Malcolm for a chance to get into politics. And Malcolm was going to sell me to get whatever it was he wanted.

“What does the secretary of state do?” I ask, my voice coming out in a whisper. It’s so low that I almost don’t hear it myself, let alone think that anyone else has.

“It’s my job to carry out foreign policies and the like,” he says.

“Human trafficking?” I ask.

The room goes quiet. You could hear a pin drop. I’m not sure who else knew this or thought that it was going to happen, but the pieces fall into place. One by one. Malcolm, that woman talking about the boys and the fact that Merrick was trafficked as a boy. Flicking my gaze to my father, I ask him one simple question.

“Do you traffic children?”

He shakes his head, his eyes finding mine. “If I did, it wouldn’t be your fucking business, Colette. But no, I don’t.”

I believe him, but I’m not about to tell him that. Instead, I lift the gun and point the barrel at him. He smirks at the sight, no doubt thinking that I won’t do it. But I am his daughter, which means that at least some of him flows through my veins. And the power of the gun isn’t as scary as it seemed just moments ago. On the contrary, it feels good.

Damn good.

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