Page 21 of Descent

No tricks, huh?

“Avvicinati, ti mostrerò un trucco,” I rumble, leaning forward and pulling against my handcuffs. The broad-shouldered Italian sausage in a suit steps into the room, trying to look imposing. With a flick of my wrist and only a mild amount of pain, I slip my hand free, popping my thumb back into joint and snagging his tie. A short jerk puts him off balance, his eyes bulging with rage, surprise, and the tightness of his collar.

“Fucking lunatic!” he chokes, whipping the butt of his gun around at me.

I’m back in my seat in a flash, kicking the table toward him and shoving him toward the door. Before he can come at me again a smooth, imperious voice fills the hallway outside.

“Brencio!”

Immediately the thug straightens to attention, practically banging his head on the wall behind him.

“Quit toying withdeathand get me a cup of tea.”

With a low growl and a face turning a vicious shade of wine, Brencio snarls at me, storms out.

A second later, a woman steps into the doorway, a half mask hides some of her facial features. Dark, sleek hair disappearsunder a scarf draped around her head, hiding just enough to pinpoint where she’s from, her age.

Now, I’m not gonna say that anything in this world really scares me.

I’ve done terrible things in the months I can remember. I have fleeting memories of other crazy shit too. Nothing phases me.

But my blood runs frosty, like fucking nitrogen through my veins.

She’s tall. Imposing. Calm, yet threatening in a way that I can’t quite put my finger on. Beautiful is the wrong word to describe the way she looks, the way she carries herself. If she is, it’s the way a predator is beautiful in the wild. This woman doesn’t kill.

She orchestrates deaths.

I’ve met people like her before, but something about her…makes me want to hurl my guts up in panic. Maybe it’s the two-inch nails, lacquered at the end of each finger. Maybe it’s the scent of her faint perfume.

Reminds me of poisonous flowers.

The rest of her appearance is peripheral to the spine-locking curve of her full lips, taunting me with a faint sneer. All of her features are sharp, yet elegant.

But it’s the eyes…

Gray. Unyielding.

Cold like granite. Like a gravestone.

“Let me guess. Hades?” Ciro chokes out, pressed against the wall of the room, as far from her as he can get.

“Ero. I apologize for your treatment thus far. You are rather…intimidating. Your skills are unrivaled, so I had to take precautions.”

Fighting past the initial reaction, I cross my arms, leaving the cuffs on the table. Just gotta look calm.

“The maze of hallways down here, under classical architecture. Guards out the ass, some of them wearing some very distinct colors. Old-world tapestries. Definitely Italian. Clearly mob related, or the like. You’re ’Ndrangheta, aren’t you?” A term I don’t know I know until this very instant. They’re a myth, a bogeyman story in the Italian criminal underworld.

She barely reacts, but I see the slightest flare in her eyes. Her chuckle is damn near sinister.

“Even without your past, you seem to have a knack for putting puzzles together, Ero. I am always impressed, never surprised.”

Like she fucking knows me?

“Maybe you could surprise me. Like with, I don’t know, the truth? Instead of this bullshit cloak and dagger, smoke and mirror crap.”

She watches me for a moment, pinning me with a stare that I can’t read to save my life.

“Hm. Follow me.”

---