Page 73 of Playing with Fire

I glanced at Algerone, who nodded slightly. Walsh was telling the truth. Of course Burns wouldn't tell a disposable asset like him anything important about his operation.

"How did he contact you?" I asked instead, changing tactics.

"Encrypted messaging app. He paid me in bitcoin. It's all on my phone. The wallet details, the messaging app. Everything. You can trace it, right?"

"Maxime?" Algerone asked without looking away from Walsh.

"Already recovered from his personal effects, sir," Maxime confirmed. "Our tech team is analyzing it now."

"How much?" I asked, taking the wire from Algerone's hands. "How much did it cost to betray us?"

"Five hundred thousand," Walsh whispered, swallowing hard.

"That's all it took? Half a million to endanger everyone in this compound?" I looped the wire around Walsh's index finger, below the knuckle.

His breathing accelerated, eyes wild with terror. "Please. Please! I'm telling you everything!"

I pulled the handles apart.

The scream that tore from Walsh's throat was primal. Raw. The sound bounced off the soundproofed walls as blood sprayed in a fine mist across the concrete floor. The severed finger dropped with a wet plop, rolling a few inches before coming to rest.

"Seriously?" Xander drawled, glancing down at his designer boots, where specks of blood had landed. "These are Balenciaga. The least you could do is aim away from the fashion, Xavier."

Xion checked his watch, leaning against the wall with the resigned posture of someone stuck in a boring meeting that was taking too long. "Can we just get this over with? There are more efficient ways to extract information than this theatrical shit."

Their casual responses to the violence struck me as bizarrely normal. Growing up Laskin meant understanding that pain was sometimes necessary, that boundaries most considered sacred were merely guidelines for people like us.

"Please…" Walsh sobbed. "I swear I told you everything! I promise!"

Algerone watched me with quiet approval, not intervening as I took control of the interrogation. I met his eyes over Walsh's head. A silent communication passed between us, the decision already made, the only question being who would deliver the final blow.

"You know," I said conversationally, returning the wire to the metal tray, "my father was never a fan of prolonged suffering. 'If a job is worth doing,' he always told me, 'it's worth doing well.'" I selected a straight razor from the tray, testing the edge with my thumb. "Clean. Efficient."

I wasn't talking about Algerone, of course. I meant Yuri, the man who'd raised me. But the way Algerone's lips twitched in what might have been approval, he clearly thought I was referring to him. Let him think that. The line between manipulation and connection was blurry at the best of times. In this moment, with blood on my hands and the taste of vengeance on my tongue, it was practically nonexistent.

"Elegant," he agreed, watching as I moved behind Walsh.

Walsh's breathing quickened again, reality finally sinking in. "Please," he whispered. "You promised—"

"I promised mercy if you cooperated," Algerone interrupted. "But it wasn't just me you wronged. You have to answer to my son as well."

My son. The casual way he claimed me made something twist in my chest. Not rejection, which would have been simpler. Not quite acceptance either. Something more complicated, a recognition of a connection that transcended my feelings about him.

I moved behind Walsh, one hand tangling in his sweat-soaked hair to pull his head back, exposing his throat. "You chose financial gain over loyalty," I told him, voice devoid of emotion. "You endangered my family. You endangered Leo."

The blade caught the light as I brought it to his throat. This close, I could smell the sour stench of his terror, could feel his pulse racing beneath my fingertips.

"You don't get to endanger what's mine and live." The blade moved in one swift, practiced motion. Clean. Efficient. A sudden rush of warm wetness over my gloved hand, and then the gurgling sounds of a man drowning in his own blood.

I stepped back, watching dispassionately as Walsh's body convulsed, blood painting his uniform in grotesque patterns before he finally stilled. Death claimed him with surprising gentleness, his eyes going blank as his final breath rattled through suddenly slack lips.

In the silence that followed, the music continued to play, electronic violins rising and falling with elegant precision. The juxtaposition of beauty and brutality felt appropriate, almost poetic.

"Maxime will handle the cleanup," Algerone said, removing his gloves and placing them in a disposal bin. "You did well."

I stripped off my own gloves, sticky with Walsh's blood. "We have what we need."

"Indeed." Algerone studied me with those eyes so similar to my own. "How are you feeling? After all this."

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