Page 36 of Submitting to Daddy
“You think you scare me, King? This place is coming down, and it’s only a matter of time before I have you and your brothers in cuffs. Then behind bars, where you belong.”
Enzo steps beside me, arms crossed over his chest. Nik flanks the other side, his jaw ticking.
“Big talk from someone sitting in our booth without backup,” I grind out, my voice low.
Frankford doesn’t flinch. “You might’ve taken out our surveillance, but we’ve got people on the inside. You won’t see the next one coming.”
Enzo steps forward, his face darkening. “Inside, where? Here? At the club? Who the fuck did you flip?”
Frankford doesn’t answer—just laughs, his stare focused on Enzo. “You should be worried. By the time I’m done, I’ll find a way to arrest that cute little redhead of yours, too. Eavan, right?”
An angered growl rises from my chest, ready to kill him where he sits. But Enzo beats me to it, grabbing him by the collar and yanking him from the booth. Slamming him against the edge of the table, Enzo snarls, “You keep her fucking name out of your mouth.” He twists Frankford into a headlock, dragging him through the club. Nik and I quickly follow, pushing past the dancers, staff, and clientele who freeze as we pass.
When we reach the rear hall, I excuse myself for a second—I need to find Madison. I grab two trusted guys from security as I cross the back of the club. She’s stepping out of the dressing room when I find her, face flushed and eyes wide. I cross the space in seconds, cupping her face with both hands. “I’m so sorry, firecracker. Something came up.” I press my forehead against hers, hating every inch between us.
“That man?” she asks softly, her voice cracking and lower lip quivering.
I silently respond with a nod, not wanting to drag her into this part of my life. “Nate and Sam are going to give you a ride home. I’ll call you in the morning.”
She nods, but the worry in her eyes is sharp. I kiss her, slow, soft, lingering against her lip when I break away from her. She presses into me, and I force myself to pull away before I can’t.
Leaving her with Nate and Sam, I turn on my heel and head toward the rear door of the club. Enzo’s SUV is waiting for me in the alley. I climb into the back of his G-Wagon. Frankford is slumped unconscious next to me, blood trickling from his nose. Enzo starts the car without a word, headlights cutting through the dark streets. Nik rides shotgun, silent and unreadable, his fingers tapping a slow rhythm on the grip of his knife.
The warehouse is cold, the only illumination coming from a single overhead bulb that casts a harsh glow over the center of the room. We have Frankford dragged inside and tied to a steel chair, his wrists secured behind his back, ankles bound to the legs before he wakes. When he finally comes to, he’s groggy and blinking against the bright light.
“Morning,” I quip. “Sleep well?”
He looks up slowly, blood drying above his upper lip. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“We do. Of all people, with your theories about us… You should understand that we knowexactlywhat we’re doing.” I crouch in front of him and lower my voice. “Who’s your guy inside?”
I don’t get an answer—just a blank, stubborn stare from his bloodshot eyes.
“Okay,” I nod, pushing to my feet and cracking my knuckles. “Let’s get started.” My first punch is almost polite—a warm-up with a jab to the gut. It lands just below his ribs, and he grunts as the breath whooshes from his lungs. The secondlands on his cheekbone with a sharp crack that sends his head whipping sideways. I land two more on his face, fresh blood now trickling from his nose. “Who’s your fucking guy, Frankford?”
Lips pursed, he shakes his head.
Nik steps forward, twirling the knife in his palm. “Let me.” He drags the smooth blade along Frankford’s forearm—slow and surgical. His skin slices open, blood welling immediately. He grits his teeth and holds back his screams as Nik takes his time adding three more deep cuts. Blood trickles down Frankford’s arms, pooling on the concrete behind his chair.
“This doesn’t end until you talk,” I inform him before landing another punch to his already bloody and swelling face.
“He wants to be a martyr. We can make that happen.” Enzo paces behind the agent restlessly. He grabs a pair of bolt cutters from the workbench and holds them up for Frankford to see the steel blades. “This is gonna hurt,” he warns, gripping his bloody left hand. “Just be happy I’m starting with your tongue.”
“No,” Frankford blurts.Finally.
I smile and condescendingly tap my palm against his face. “There he is.”
Enzo takes his pinky finger. The sound is grotesque—a muffled crunch of bone and cartilage—followed by Frankford’s blood-curdling scream. It echoes around the metal walls of the warehouse, sounding like a wounded animal. His body convulses against the chair, the pain suddenly too much.
“Tell us who it is,” I insist as Enzo readies to take another finger. “Or we might have to start getting creative.” He spits at me, bloody spittle spraying across the front of my shirt. Enzosqueezes the cutters, and a second finger drops to the pool of blood at his feet.
I spend two hours methodically wrapping piano wire around each of Frankford’s toes, slowly cinching it tight and sawing through the bone, agonizingly removing them one by one. Drenched in sweat and covered in blood, he trembles above me but stays silent.He’s a stubborn son of a bitch.
“I’m not telling you shit,” he pants between labored breaths.
“Who’s your guy inside?” I demand, my fist slamming into his jaw again. “Who?”
We go all night, savagely inflicting pain on him. By sunrise, blood soaks all of his clothes, and his head hangs lifeless against his chest. He didn’t break, not even a hint of the name we were seeking.
