Page 10 of The Don's Hidden Heir

I nod to the four bodyguards who brought him in, signaling them to drop him on his knees. The second he is in the position I want him, I prop my elbow on my mahogany desk. “I need a name.”

The bastard has the nerves to chuckle. “I don’t have any names to give you. If you want names, find them yourself.”

My nostrils flare at his obvious insult. Idiots like him lack the ability to read the room, either that or he knows he won’t make it out of here alive and is holding onto what little pride he has.

It’s true he won’t make it out of here alive, but unlike before, I plan to make his exit excruciating.

“You just ruined your only chance of a peaceful death.”

“Screw you, Dominic,” he spits, refusing to give in.

I want to commend him for his bravery, but the fact that misplaced bravery is just mindless stupidity, doesn’t let me. I lift myself from my swivel chair and prowl to him, a wicked smile tainting my face. “I do the screwing, Oliver.”

Oliver.Even his name is goddamn annoying.

His pupils dilate with fear when I tower over him. He tries to hide it, but I can swear this cunt is peeing in his pants right now. “I need a name.”

He opens his mouth, but my fist collides with his swollen cheeks before he can pour more useless words from it. He thuds to the ground, pain filling his growl. “It’s a shame, Oliver. You’re so quick to speak, yet so weak.” I shake my head sardonically.

My bodyguards raise him back to his knees.

A tendril of satisfaction fills my chest at the blood cascading down his cheek. However, it fades when I notice the splatter of blood on my white shirt.

Fuck, I hate dirt.

Lowering myself into a squat position, I look Oliver in the eyes. “Do you know how much this shirt costs?”

His mouth quivers, as if he’s trying to say something but is unable to.

“It costs more than your life.” Every muscle in my body shakes awake with violence. I’m more enraged his blood splattered on my shirt than I am with his insults and refusal to speak.

Lunging forward, I drive my fist into his jaw. The sickening crack that follows fuels my anger even more. I grab the collar of his black shirt with one hand, throwing punch after punch on his jaw until he goes limp on the white marble floor of my office, a mess of gashes and bruises.

I stumble back to my feet. “Clean this mess.”

“Yes, boss,” the bodyguards say. Two of them drag an almost lifeless Oliver out of the office, while the other two clean up some of the bloody mess with a Kleenex before they find the cleaning lady.

Dante looks at me with admiration. “You haven’t lost your touch yet.”

I ignore him and grab a fresh shot glass from the minibar in the corner of the office. “Find out whatever you can from him. If he still refuses to talk, finish him off in a gruesome way.”

He nods. Silence hangs between us for a moment.

From the corner of my eye, I notice Dante doesn’t stop looking at me. “What do you plan to do now that you’re back?”

I raise my brows. “Is there something I should be doing?”

His throat moves as he swallows. “You miss her, don’t you?”

My stomach twitches at the mention of ‘her’.

Her.

I’ve dreaded that word every day for the last seven years, and I hate the mention of her name even more.

The first time I met Elena Marconi, my world came to a stop. An emotion that was so foreign it swept me off my feet and bloomed in my heart. I’d thought she was the one. I stupidly believed she was the one light to glint in the dark tunnel.

But she wasn’t.

---