Page 13 of Last Hand

My breath stalls.

He turns the blade over in his hand, almost casually, like it’s just a tool in a trade he’s long since mastered.

“You’re still pretending,” he says. “Still playing the martyr. Like you’re above fear.”

I look at him. Just look. And say, “I’m not afraid of you.”

His eyes flicker—something cold and calculating behind them.

“No?” he says. Then lowers his voice to a near whisper.

“You will be.”

He twists the blade, the point pressing against the tip of his index finger. He ponders for a second like he is a butcher debating where he should cut first.

Instead, he reaches for my left hand.

“I’m curious how you came to be,” he says lightly, like we’re having a conversation over coffee instead of in a dungeon of his making. “This one—” he lifts my wedding hand, tapping the ring with the tip of the blade, “—means something to Leone, doesn’t it? Or were you merely a transaction, a business deal?” I grit my teeth. A slow, sly smile spreads across his face. He twists the ring on my finger between his, turning it over.

“Bigger than the one he gave Lydia,” he murmurs.

I rip my hand back instinctively, and he jerks it forward again, gripping my wrist.

“Don’t,” I hiss as my panic spikes.

“Don’t?” he echoes, feigning surprise. “I thought you weren’t afraid.” With a sharp flick of his wrist, he slices—not deep, butenough to draw blood just beneath the ring. He doesn’t remove the finger. The metal is now slick on my finger, blood-streaked.

“That’ll make a nice close-up,” he says, smirking. “I wonder what Leone will say when he sees it.”

He turns to nod at the camera in the corner of the room, the tiny blinking light taunting me. A few seconds later, the door opens, and a man enters with his phone. He moves off to the side, pointing the camera of his phone directly at me.

“We’re now live,” he says, his voice low, intimate. “Smile, firefly.” I glare at him, and he chuckles, letting my hair go as he walks around me slowly.

“You never answered.” My brows crease when he continues. “How did you meet Leone?”

I don’t want to answer. I’m also trying to mentally prepare myself for whatever he has planned next, so stalling seems like a good idea for now.

“I worked for him,” I answer.

“Hmm, I thought it odd he would choose love and not alliance. Lydia was for power even if he refuses to admit it. He knew I wouldn’t come for him if he had my sister on his arm. The family feud started with our fathers. So I’m shocked he didn’t marry a second time for the same thing.” I say nothing instead, taking this information in.

“But who am I to speak? My wife was a nobody, too,” he replies. I leave my face blank as he speaks of my mother; her face has haunted me since being brought here.

He steps behind me and grabs a fistful of my hair, yanking my head back. Pain flares along my scalp, I don’t scream. I clamp my teeth down on the sound, locking it behind my lips.

He drags the knife along my jaw, not slicing, just pressing the flat of the blade to my skin.

“You know,” he says softly, “I once watched Leone shoot a man for winking at Lydia; it was their wedding. It wasquite the show, to be honest; it was disrespectful. Lydia should have known better than to invite her previous boyfriend to the wedding. Never mind that; I wonder what he’ll do when he sees what I’ve got planned for you.”

I clench my fists.

I know what he’s trying to do. It’s not about hurting me. Not really. It’s about hurting Leone through me.

And for the first time, it works.

Not because I’m afraid.

Because I know Leone will see this, and I know what it will do to him.

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