Page 12 of Captive Vows
LUKA
Emil came through with information about Miguel Lopez. He didn’t keep me waiting for long. No matter the target and regardless of the reason someone had to be investigated, my son could get his hands on whatever intel he required to get the job done.
“A daughter?”
I glanced up from the documents he’d handed me. I was back in my office at the end of a long day of reviewing the documents and reports that encompassed several businesses within the organization.
Allen was just exiting the room with Emil’s arrival.
Emil nodded and yawned, clearly staying up late, as was his style. He kept odd hours and was often on the go, all over the world.
According to the file Emil had gotten his hands on, Miguel Lopez had a daughter. Family members were always an option for collateral damage or leverage. I would know. My wife had been killed as an attack on me.
“No wife?” I tossed the file to my desk, uninterested in perusing the material inside it just yet.
“No. Or he did.” Emil shrugged. “It seems like she was killed many years ago in a drive-by.”
“Hmm.” It stood to reason that Miguel would be all his daughter had, and vice versa. Their bond would be strong, I bet. And that would work in my favor. “Any other assets of note?”
“None that I could find. He’s a deadbeat who seems one OD away from death.”
“Then I imagine these hours he’s been held are hell on him.” Withdrawal was one of the easiest means of torture and one we didn’t need to do anything to accomplish.
“From the reports of the men at the holding cells, he’s been alternating between sobbing, begging, and praying.”
“For mercy?” I guessed.
He shrugged again. “Who fucking knows?”
“Then let’s find out what he thinks about losing his daughter instead of his life.” I stood and headed out with my son. Emil was all I had. Just father and son for us, like Miguel and his daughter. If anything were to happen to my son, I’d be devastated. I’d move mountains to ensure his well-being, but with time, and especially with Emil’s propensity for and excellence at killing targets, I’d come to learn to trust him to be in control of his own safety. Letting go as a parent was never a simple feat, but I knew without a doubt that if I were ever captured and my son’s life were dangled on the line, I would tell them to take me. To kill me.
What the fuck? Maybe this is as good as it’ll get.Such dark and morbid thoughts weren’t the norm for me. I surprised myself with these thoughts, that maybe I’d done all I could in this lifetime. I was only about to turn fifty, yet my mind was veering toward a nonchalant attitude more suited for a ninety-year-old nearing the end of his life. With this idleness and lack of interest that accumulated every day, I had to wonder what I had to look forward to again.
I’d raised my son and my nephews.
I’d strengthened the family.
I’d proved our might to our enemies.
What else?—
“We’re here,” Emil told me. He might have assumed I’d lost track of where we were going with how I’d looked out the window of the car the whole ride.
Jolted from my thoughts, I nodded. “After you.”
We entered the building and went directly to the basement where the worst of the worst were keeping our hostages and captives in line. Miguel had his own cell at the end of a dark corridor. His cries and begging pleas were audible before we walked down the narrow length. At the sound of his misery, a kernel of excitement lit up in my chest. The prospect of delivering justice would give me some degree of pleasure.
But will it last?
When will I be committed to something other than working like this?
Once more, I consciously shoved those thoughts aside.
“Please, Mr. Dubinin,” Miguel cried out pathetically once Emil and I entered the room.
He was a mess, and he’d made a mess of himself. No matter how cocky, strong, or numb a person could be, after a few hours of torture under my skilled, hardened men, they’d be pissing or shitting themselves in fear. Ammonia from urine offended my nose. The reeking hint of dried fecal matter didn’t help. But it was the metallic tang of blood in the cell that stood out the most.
Miguel was more a sack of bruised and bleeding skin over broken bones than a man. He lay on his side. Tears streaked over his cheeks, but the blood coating his skin had already dried over so thickly that the moisture from his eyes couldn’t rinse it away.
