Page 147 of Dance of Ruin

Wait. Why does that name sound familiar?

“And what is this Omar’s role,” I spit at Adam.

He coughs and wheezes, wriggling on his chain like a worm on a fucking hook.

“He’s the one who brings orders from the guy at the top…” he mumbles, fading in and out of consciousness.

Oh, can’t have that. He’ll miss all the fun.

I turn and grab one of the buckets of ice water I’ve got lined up behind me. Adam sputters when I splash it on him, sending him back into consciousness.

But just to make sure?

Yup. Another punch to the dick. Hugely enjoyable.

“Tell me more about Omar,” I hiss. “Last name. Address. What he looks like.”

Adam is openly sobbing now, writhing on his chain.

“Don’t know his surname…” he cries. “Or where he lives.”

“Adam, all I’m hearing is that you want to get hit in the balls again. And this time, I might have to use something sharp and pointy…or how about that blowtorch over there.” I turn, gesturing to the table of goodies I have laid out like a buffet.

He wails, shaking his head. “I don’t know! H-he’s your height. Hispanic, maybe Middle Eastern. Light skinned, goatee…”

For fuck’s sake.

He’s describing easily a fifth of the population of New York.

“Adam, Adam, Adam…” I sigh heavily as I turn toward my toys on the table.

“Tattoo!” he blurts in a broken voice. “Yeah…tattoo on his forearm. A giant lion…wearing a Yankees cap…”He sucks in a ragged breath. “And a number eight…gothic font.”

Holy.Shit.

A month and a half ago, I met a man on a rooftop—a possible lead into who might be prying into the Black Court. Naomi accidentally saw me push the dumb fuck off a roof, but not before I’d had a chance to talk to him.

Hear his threats.

“If you were this interested in meeting me, then that means you’re worried about what me and my crew might already know about your little club.”

I remember wondering how someone could havethat fucking badof a lion tattoo on their forearm.

And his name was Omar.

When it clicks into place, something dark blooms inside me.

Omar wasn’t just “some guy”. He wasObsidian Syndicate. And not some low-level foot soldier, either, if he was the link between these two fuck-bags and “the guy” at the top.

Something cold ripples down my spine.

I’m beginning to think that the whole meet on the roof was a setup. The Obsidian Syndicate, looking for more weak spots—or, fuck, trying to killme.

Shit.

“Tell me about thisguy at the top,” I growl at them.

This time, Adam is dumb enough tostoptalking. That’s an automatic punch to the dick.

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