Page 18 of Taming Seraphine

SIX

LEROI

The firm I inherited from Anton has a number of valuable assets. Firearms, explosives, and facilities across New Alderney. None are more vital than the clean-up crew. They’re quiet, discreet, and can handle any size of job efficiently and without complaint.

I draw the living room curtains, encasing the space in gloom and survey the mess of spilled blood, slumped bodies, and slit throats. This is worse than the chaos I created at the Capello mansion.

Seraphine must have worked her way through the poker crew one by one when we were too high to realize she was picking us off with her stolen knife. I run a hand over my face and pinch the bridge of my nose.

Shit.

I can’t even blame the girl.

Billy Blue’s groping must have unlocked her pent-up rage from being powerless under the Capellos’ control. They didn’t just keep her prisoner, they put a shock collar around her neck and a chip under her skin.

What those sick fucks must have done to her. In her position, I wouldn’t have stopped at castrating one man. I raise a hand to my neck, wondering if she spared me for a reason, was saving me for last, or had simply forgotten?

I don’t dare to ask.

Her trauma, combined with Anton’s training, makes Seraphine a walking disaster.

The kitchen door opens, and Seraphine walks out, holding a half-eaten sandwich. Blood soaks the front of her sweatshirt, rolled up jogging pants, and coats her dainty little feet.

There’s no telling if she’s just pressed two slices together or has gathered up the dubious meat, but she stares straight into my eyes, brings the bread to her mouth, and takes a bite as though issuing a challenge.

“Stop that.” My jaw clenches.

Without stopping to chew her mouthful, she takes another bite. Her gaze fixes on mine with open defiance. She’s like a cat that’s eaten the proverbial canary and gives no fucks that it has feathers sticking out of its jaw.

At the third bite, something inside me snaps. I close the distance between us and pry the shit out of her hand. “You are not eating a cock sandwich,” I snarl. “Not in this house.”

Seraphine raises her chin and glares up at me, pretty eyes burning with insolence.

“You’re supposed to be cleaning up,” I snarl.

“I am,” she replies in a monotone.

My nostrils flare. What is it with this girl? One minute, I’m sympathizing with her, the next, I want to wrap my hands around her scrawny little throat.

“Pick one man,” I say, forcing my voice to stay even. “Drag him to the front door and put his shit in a bag.”

Still glaring up at me, she parts her lips, but I’m no longer interested in what she has to say.

“Trash bags are in the cupboard under the sink. Go.”

Seraphine slopes into the kitchen, letting the door swing shut, and reappears a moment later with a roll of bags. Trudging across the room like she’s on a death march, she cuts me a glower before disappearing behind her door.

My jaw drops.

She wants to clean up her attacker? Of the eight men she killed, she chooses him.

I run a hand through my hair and pull on the ends. What the hell have I gotten myself into?

The doorbell rings, snapping my attention away from Seraphine’s room. On the other side are six familiar faces, including Don. Standing at six-six, only two inches taller than me, but built like a barn, Don’s crew consists of relatives who share family genetics.

He offers me a broad smile and a raised brow. “You said it was a big job?”

“In here.” I step aside and sweep an arm toward the corpses.

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