Page 159 of Taming Seraphine

“Find the bathroom,” I tell her.

She rushes ahead, opening and closing doors until she finds the right one. “Here.”

I drag Ferrante across the wooden floorboards into a room of white tiles and an equally pristine suite. Tasteful. I sit him on the toilet seat and handcuff him to the towel rack.

While I’m taping plastic wrap to the floor, Seraphine returns with a nail gun.

I raise a brow.

“You should see all his tools,” she says, her cheeks flushed. “He has so many.”

“Can you do something for me?” I ask.

“What?”

“Don’t touch his cock.”

Her brows pinch. “Why not?”

“If you touch him like you did that other guy, I’ll put a bullet through his head.”

SIXTY-TWO

SERAPHINE

Leroi sounds jealous. It’s almost as though the only penis he wants me torturing is his. While he fusses with covering the entire hallway in plastic wrap, I sit on the edge of the bathtub with the nail gun on my lap, watching Mike Ferrante.

Mike has gained weight since I last saw him. He doesn’t look so menacing, slumped on a toilet seat with a patch of blood on his t-shirt. The next time I dream of that night, I hope to find him sitting in the corner looking so helpless.

Leroi insisted on placing duct tape around his mouth, so his screams wouldn’t disturb the neighbors, and he even provided a notepad and pen in case Mike wants to share some information about Gabriel and Samson. He’s so thoughtful.

A murder bag sits on the sink, containing an assortment of knives, tools, syringes, and ammunition. We both know Mike will need some extra persuasion.

He grunts, and his eyelids flicker. I rise off the edge of the bathtub, expecting to see his terror, but his eyes remain closed.

“Open your eyes,” I say.

He doesn’t move.

“Wake up, Mike.” I kick him in the shin, but he doesn’t even flinch, so I press the nail gun into his shoulder and pull the trigger.

Mike’s muffled groan infuses my spine with a tingle of excitement. His lids snap open, revealing eyes so bloodshot they might as well be crimson.

He grunts through the duct tape and tries to raise his hips off the toilet seat, but he’s taped down with nowhere to go. Swinging his hand not handcuffed to the rail, he finds it’s chained to the cuffs and throttles his reach.

I step back, the anticipation making my pulse race.

“You have an hour before the clean-up crew arrives,” Leroi says from the doorway.

Mike’s head jerks toward the source of the sound, his eyes widening with even more alarm. He makes a noise behind the gag that sounds like, ‘What do you want?’

“Why are we on a tight schedule when Mike’s wife will be gone for at least eight hours?” I snap.

“You know why.”

My lips tighten. I don’t want to admit that Leroi has a point. If whoever shot at us earlier is connected to the contract out on the Montesano brothers, then Leroi might also be in danger. That’s not even counting what Samson is plotting from the shadows.

“Fine.” I turn my attention back to Mike. He’s breathing so hard and fast that the red blotches on his face darken to a nasty shade of purple.

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