Page 28 of His Savage Ruin
"Thank you," I say, squeezing his arm gently. "I'd really appreciate that."
After they leave, I sit back in my chair, mind racing. Romeo is kind but ultimately loyal. Marco is professional and unmoved by charm. I need a different strategy, something that exploits the growing cracks in the Romano organization's security.
Because despite Matteo's promises of protection, I know the truth—I'm only safe as long as I'm useful.
And the moment my usefulness expires, all the coffee in the world won't save me.
Matteo
The basement interrogation room is exactly what it needs to be—windowless, soundproof, designed to encourage honesty through atmosphere alone. Rafael leans against the far wall, arms crossed, while our prisoner sits zip-tied to a metal chair in the center of the space.
The man is younger than I expected, maybe twenty-five, with the kind of desperate hunger in his eyes that marks him as someonetrying to prove himself to his superiors. Exactly the type who might know more than he should about Moretti operations.
"What is your name,” I say, settling into the chair across from him with deliberate precision.
“Go fuck yourself.”
Rafael chuckles darkly. “I told you he was a charmer, boss.”
I study the prisoner’s face—sweat beading despite the cool temperature, rapid breathing, tremor in his hands. Fear poorly disguised as bravado.
“Interesting choice,” I say, my voice conversational. “Rafael, remind me—what happened to the last man who spoke to me that way?”
“Fed him to the fish in pieces,” Rafael replies cheerfully. “Started with the fingers, if I remember correctly.”
The prisoner’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard.
“Now then,” I continue, leaning forward slightly. “You’re going to tell me who ordered the ambush, how they knew our route, and what else Don Emilio is planning. The quality of your answers will determine how many pieces you leave this room in.”
The man tries to laugh, but it comes out strangled. “You think I’m scared of you? The don wants his property back, and he’s going to get it. Along with whatever bastard she’s carrying.”
Property. The word makes something dark unfurl in my chest.
“Property,” I repeat thoughtfully. “Is that what you call her?”
“That’s what she is. Moretti property. And when we get her back?—"
I move faster than thought. My knife slides between his ribs, just deep enough to puncture the lung but not deep enough to kill. Yet.
His scream echoes off the concrete walls.
“Wrong answer,” I say calmly, wiping the blade clean on his shirt. “Let’s try again. What makes you think Don Emilio will succeed where his ambush failed?”
Blood foams at the corners of the prisoner’s mouth as he struggles to breathe. “He... he’ll burn this place... salt the fucking earth...”
“How?” I twist the knife slightly. “With what army? What resources? Give me details, or I start removing organs.”
“I don’t... I don’t know the details,” he gasps. “Just know he’s got something planned. Something big.”
“Not good enough.” I stand, walking to the table where my tools wait. “Rafael, hold him steady.”
Rafael pushes off the wall with predatory grace, placing his hands on the prisoner’s shoulders. The man struggles against his bonds, but the zip ties hold firm.
I select a pair of bolt cutters, testing their weight in my hands.
“Please,” the prisoner whispers, all bravado finally gone. “I told you everything I know.”
“I don’t think you have.” I position the cutters around his pinky finger. “This is your last chance to be useful. After this, we move to more creative methods.”
