Page 68 of Dangerous King
"I'm saying we've both been played," he mutters.
I stand slowly, the photo still in my hand. He looks up at me through hollow eyes.
"If you believe anything I say, believe this: I might be a bastard, but I wouldn't have touched your sister. I'm not that stupid."
Now there is the lie. It pours out of his pores. My fist slams into his face. "Liar!"
The chair teeters with him in it. "You were about to kill her.Wouldhave killed her, if?—"
I break off. Giovanni is as good as dead, but I'm not going to take any risks when it comes to Cat's safety. The less he knows of how much she's helped us, the better.
I rise to my full height, and my shadow spills across him like a grave marker. He flinches before he can stop himself. Then I step back. Force my breathing to slow. But it's like trying to cage a hurricane.
Giovanni shifts in the chair, testing the cuffs like he thinks there's a way out of this. There isn't. I look down at his trembling form. His soaked, broken body. I should feel something like pity.
I don't.
All I feel is the blistering reminder of her hand in mine. The missing finger. She tried to hide it; she thinks it makes her less. That it's her shame to carry instead of mine to avenge. My vision tightens; the edges burn red with the kind of fury I've spent a lifetime controlling. I'm not a man who enjoys torture. It's messy. Inefficient. A waste of time when a bullet to the head sends a cleaner message.
But this?
This isn't a message.
This is vengeance.
This is mine.
"Silvano," that's all I have to say. Silvano knows me; he steps forward and lays out the roll of blades and pliers on the nearby tray. Cool and efficient, there's no need for theatrics. I roll up my sleeves.
"You like hurting little girls?" I murmur, selecting a slender blade, thin enough for precision.
Giovanni doesn't answer. So I grab his hand.
His eyes widen. "Wait—Enrico—wait?—"
The blade slides through his finger, hits bone with an audible crack, and I apply enough pressure to keep going. Giovanni howls in pain and tries to pull his hand back, but the chair's metal and my other hand holding him are unforgiving. This chair might not be as sophisticated as his little torture device in his basement, but it'll suffice.
One down.
I move to the next.
"Don't—please?—"
His voice cracks. His legs kick at the chair's base, the cuffs rattling.
"Stop? You want me to stop?" I lift an eyebrow as I set the blade down and pick up a pair of bolt cutters instead.
"You didn't stop when she cried. You didn't stop when you had her finger cut off to keep her father in line."
He's panting now. "I didn't hurt your sister! I didn't hurt her?—"
That stops me. "You don't know who I'm talking about, do you?" I ask, disgusted, crouching down again. "You did that to a child, and you don't even care enough to remember her name?"
He blinks rapidly. The blood loss is making him shake. I'm too enraged now to stop, teetering on the verge of being relieved that he doesn't know why I'm doing this, and the utter disgust of him not remembering doing this to Cat. I grab his hand tighter. "Let me help you understand."
Snap.
He howls like a wounded animal as the first joint gives way under the pressure of the cutters, and I don't stop. Sweat runs down the back of my neck; the blood is clouding my vision when I think that he did that toher. I want to keep cutting him to pieces until there is nothing left but minced meat. And I do. Finger by finger, until his screams turn hoarse and he slumps, barely conscious, in the chair, his blood dripping to the floor, staining the concrete.
