Page 25 of Crescendo

Arno doesn’t seem capable of giving me any answers. His gaze is on the floor. He’s shaking his head slowly from right to left. Then left to right. “I’ve never asked you for anything,” he says heatedly. “Never. But, Dante—”

He doesn’t evenneedto ask.

“Go.” I cut my gaze over to the door. Then I cock the gun and aim it in the vicinity of the woman’s head. “I’ll watch her.”

He staggers toward the stairs without question, but when his eyes meet mine again from over his shoulder, the lion stares back. “Make sure she watches every fucking bit of it.” He palms the doorknob and gestures to the rest of his men. “Everyone out.”

They leave, though it’s hard to register the movement when my eyes are focused on the girl. She’s leaning forward again, her ass nearly out of the chair completely. Her prim little lips are pursed, her gaze steely. It doesn’t seem to bother her one fucking bit, the sight of two men using Parish’s limp body at once.

For what it’s worth, I can’t fucking watch it.

Two hours. That’s how long the video lasts. The laptop’s almost out of power by the time the final man takes his turn witha motionless Parish. The machine protests its overuse with a steady beep that cuts through the guttural sounds issuing from the video. I turn to the screen just as a prompt warning2% battery remainingflashes across it and the video cuts off on a still of Parish’s body lying naked and lifeless on the floor. Someone threw syringes onto the floor in front of her, each one filled with amber liquid.

Slamming the screen shut so hard that something cracks is the only thing I can do to preserve her dignity. The violence of the motion makes the woman seated before me jump. She blinks as if snapping out of a trance. Her mouth opens for a sharp intake of air. Then she laughs. The sound trickles out of her, low and unsteady. Then louder. High-pitched. Her body jerks with the force of it, and she winds up slumped, facedown against the table, giggling hysterically. Helpless, her hands flutter at her sides, the fingers circling and uncurling as if she doesn’t fucking know what to do with them. With herself.

It’s as chilling as watching a pack of hyenas cackle after a kill. She’s drunk on the violence and high off the bloodshed. Every brutal, violent image is etched onto her skin, and the bitch just can’t stop giggling as she takes it all in.

It’s only when she seems to run out of air that the sound finally dies off. She inhales brokenly instead, writhing with each breath. Her face tilts until she’s looking at me, her eyes bloodshot, her hair a mess. There are tears rolling down her cheeks and snot on her chin.

“Is that... Is that what you’re going to do to me?” she asks when she’s caught her breath. Like the first man on the video, she has an accent I can’t place. “Is it?”

I don’t answer her. Arno does for me.

“Yes.” He’s returned, guarding the doorway to the stairs like some beast straight out of Hades itself. There’s a cold, icy gleam in his eye I know well. Hell, I helped put it there. The puppy and the kitty cut their teeth on the same bones back in the day,honing their shared lust for blood. “I’m going to do exactly that and send it to your fucking fiancé. But not without giving him a little appetizer first.”

He flexes his right hand, and the knife he’s holding in it catches the light. It has a wicked edge, and when he reaches the table, he shoves the computer out of the way and stands directly across from the woman.

“Hold her still,” he tells me.

I can’t fight that part of me that bristles at the order, but even I can forgive a grieving bastard for forgetting his place. I reach down, bracing one hand on the woman’s shoulder, not that she struggles. Slowly, she pulls herself upright, sitting pretty once again. Her eyes trace the blade Arno’s waving in her face. She doesn’t flinch. It’s only when he reaches for her arm that she moves at all, jerking out of his reach.

“Not my hands,” she says hoarsely. “Not my fingers.” She accompanies the command by reaching up to brush a strand of dark hair behind her right ear. Then she tugs pointedly at the earlobe. Her message is simple but crystal clear:Take thisinstead.

Arno grimaces. I don’t know if it’s in shock at her brazen request or the fact that the little princess just took all the fun out of his torture. She doesn’t seem scared shitless by the threat of the blade. She merely requests we not cut off her goddamn fingers first.

Once again, a single question crosses my mind, more fiercely than before. Just who the fuck is she?“Your fucking fiancé,”Arno said to her. I picture the man in the video again, the one in the suit with the crooked nose. Was that him?

The girl has a ring on her left hand. The diamond in the center of it almost spans the width of her entire finger. Whoever her fiancé is, he certainly isn’t a poor motherfucker.

“You don’t make the fucking rules of this game, bitch,” Arno snarls. But it’s increasingly apparent that he can’t make good onhis threat. His hand is shaking too badly. The rage is back, consuming his gaze and swallowing him down whole.

Before the girl can react, he lunges across the table and snatches her forearm. He yanks her forward, nearly dragging her across the table. Her feet dangle in the air, the black heels scraping the floor.

Grunting, Arno eyes her skin, hefting the knife. I doubt he’ll be satisfied with just a finger. No. He’ll take her whole hand. Her arm. And something tells me that he’ll want her alive long enough for her fiancé to get the message.

“Give me the knife.” I hold my hand out, forcing Arno to make eye contact.

He shakes his head. “This ismyfight, Dante—”

“Give me the knife.”

Something in my tone makes him back down. He lets the woman go, shoving her onto the chair. Then he slams the knife against my palm blade-side down. I hiss at the burning pain, but I curl my fingers around the blade and switch it to my dominant hand.

I’m like a butcher, hunting for the finest cut of meat when I trail my gaze along the woman’s fingers. They’re slim, slender, and she curls them up tight beneath my gaze. In the end, I don’t know what makes me seize her earlobe between my thumb and my forefinger instead. She has a diamond stud in each one, and the gleaming head serves as the perfect guide for when I start to cut.

I make it quick. One firm slice and her earlobe is in my fingers. She whines, smothering the sound beneath a pale hand before it even seems to fully leave her throat.

“Here.” I throw it onto the table, toward Arno, who just stares down at the severed bit of flesh.

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