Chapter Thirty-Two

Dante

In all the thirteen years I've been sworn by blood, I still haven't quite gotten used to its cloying metallic stink. I suppress a shudder as I wipe my hands with a white towel, the crimson stains seeping into the fabric.

Sal hands me a vial of epinephrine, his face a mask of concentration. Across from us, Owen Novak sits tied to a metal chair, the skin of his chest flayed and kneecaps missing. He silently begs for the release of death, but he doesn't deserve it. Not yet.

Smoking Owen out of the war bunker he'd holed up in, then dragging him back to Chicago, took a hell of a lot longer than planned. Meanwhile, the Irish have started throwing tantrums.

Urban Elixir Club and Colosseum Casino now lie in smoldering ruins. I've asked Nico not to retaliate as long as no one is hurt. As much as it pains him to do nothing while they torch our businesses, Nico has honored my wishes. He understands how difficult it would be to explain over dinner—or in bed—how you killed your woman's daddy.

And now time is running out. It's been a week since the meeting and six days since Sal and I left for DC. And all I have to show for it is Owen Novak, dying in front of me.

A grunt of frustration escapes me as I draw the pale fluid from the vial into a syringe. "Tell me what I want, and I'll let you die, Owen."

The room falls silent, punctuated only by his rattling breath. Blood pours from his nose and mouth, and his breaths are shallower. A punctured lung, maybe. How the hell did he even get that? But it doesn't matter anymore. This man will be dead in minutes.

It would have been more efficient to break him down slowly, torturing him mentally and physically over days or weeks. But we don't have that time. Already, it took too long to track the slippery motherfucker down, even with Bonnie's help.

So, it has to be this way: a cocktail of extreme brutality starting with excruciating pain to increase brain glutamate levels and give a heightened sense of despair, followed by Pentothal, to help loosen the tongue. Epinephrine shots keep them alive a little longer until they break. Or die.

This is a huge gamble, and especially for a hardened assassin like Novak, the natural way is way less messy and more predictable. But I've always been a wagering man.

"Why her?" I ask again because asking a ghost assassin, "Who sent you?" is as useful as trying to squeeze blood from a stone.

I hear a faint wheeze, and as I go to jab his bruised, swollen neck with epinephrine to keep him alive a little longer, I hear him speak.

"Unfinished business . . ." Owen gasps, his chest rising and falling unnaturally.

I tamp down on the hope bubbling inside me that he's finally breaking, but something about the way his head lolls to one side tells me Owen no longer has the strength to lie or resist. He's too far gone.

"What? Speak up, Owen," I cajole.

"T-the first hit . . . it failed . . ." His breath hitches, and I feel an unpleasant prickle at the base of my skull at having to wait with bated breath for his words.

I take a deep breath telling myself if the man could talk faster, he would.

"Come on, Owen, give me something fast so I can help you."

His head lols to the side. "Client c-came back. S-said the child. Didn't. Die."

My gaze flies to Sal, the shock on his face mirrors mine. Owen Novak tried to kill her eighteen years ago? I eye Owen skeptically. There's not much human left of him, but he can't be a day over twenty-five years old. He's simply not old enough to be the gunman from two decades ago. "You were the Brackendown road hitman?"

"It was Daddy, Emil N-Novak," he sputters deliriously. "He's . . . retired now."

Sal and I exchange another look, this time more horror than surprise. This is so much worse. The person after Addy is deranged enough to carry a grudge over two decades and truly means business. They won't stop until she's finally dead.

"I see." I fold my arms and lean against the metal table, where my instruments are laid out in neat lines, half of them caked with blood. "What happened to decorating torsos with dozens of small-caliber bullets at point-blank range, your usual fucked-up MO? Why did you use a bomb this time?"

He makes long choking sounds, and I'm surprised he can still talk. His wounds have stopped pouring out blood. Meaning his heart has stopped pumping effectively. "She . . . kinda h-hard to k-kill."

"True." A surge of dark pride overwhelms me. Addy survived half a dozen bullets at the age of five. While I've been shot a few times in my adult years, I've never taken six hits at once.

I decide to ask the next question since he's started talking. "So, who wants her dead so bad?"

Owen's breath hitches dangerously, and he sputters incoherently. "It . . . It . . ."

I lean closer to him, noting Sal instantly on high alert. I put up a finger to stop him. Owen can't do much right now.

"Who, Owen? Give me one name."

"P-p-pa . . ." He trails off again

"Who motherfucker!" I roar.

Owen gasps, then goes still.

"No, no, no. Not yet!" I jab him with the epinephrine.

His head falls back, his face a grotesque mask of blood and flesh, irises dilated in death.

It's over.

"Fuck!"

"Any point in CPR?" Sal suggests, already cutting his binds.

I look him over and sigh, shaking my head. "Nah. He's a mess. His ribs are broken, lung punctured . . . It's no use."

For a moment it looks like Sal still wants to go for it but then realizes it's pointless. Even if we restart his heart, he'd be brain-dead. Owen Novak will not be talking anymore.

"I should have gone slower," I mutter.

"And he wouldn't have broken," Sal says. "He's a ghost, Dante. Only you could make him even begin to spill his guts."

I toss the syringe and vial onto the metal table and head to the sink mounted on the far wall to wash off the blood and grime. A weary fatigue descends on me. This is one aspect of our lives that I loathe. But without it, we'd all be dead.

For the last thirteen years, every time I've taken a life, it's been to protect what I've sworn to protect: Blood. Duty. Honor.

And recently, a fiery redhead who embodies all of that.

Fuck, I needed that name. I have to find out who they are and stop them before it's too late.

We might have found a way to stop Orlando's rebellion, but I am still fighting on two fronts:

One enemy seen and the other unseen.

***

The smell of blood and fear still clings to my skin as I stride into the mansion. My muscles ache from the tension of the past week, but there's only one thought in my mind: Addy.

The marble foyer echoes with my footsteps, the surroundings a stark contrast to the grimy warehouse I've just left behind. Aydin appears from a side corridor, her expression brightening.

" Signor Dante," she greets, then adds without me having to ask. "Addy is by the pool with Signora Sophie."

My heart rate quickens at the mention of her name. It's been a week—a long, grueling week—and the need to see her, to touch her, is almost overwhelming. But I force myself to nod calmly.

"Thanks, Aydin. Any other news?"

She shakes her head. As much as I want to rush to the poolside, I know I need to shower first. The stench of violence clings to me, and I won't bring that to Addy.

I climb the grand staircase, my hand sliding along the polished banister. The house is quiet, but I can feel the undercurrent of tension. Everyone is forced to stand by while the Irish make moves, but we're on very high alert.

My suite door opens silently, and I'm immediately enveloped in Addy's sweet vanilla scent. My body responds instantly, a primal reaction I can't control.

I strip quickly and step into the shower. As hot water cascades over my skin, the tension from this gruesome afternoon ebbs away, replaced by a different kind of urgency.

Stepping out of the shower, I dry off quickly and pull on a pair of swim trunks. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My body is a map of tattoos, each one a reminder of the life I live. But for the first time, I wonder what Addy really sees when she looks at me. Do I still terrify her?

Would she be more comfortable if things were more nuanced, more hidden? If I pretended to be a good man like the devil she likes to call daddy? Did Benjamin choose a clean-skinned man like himself for her?

But there's no fucking point in what-ifs. Addy's getting me, and she'll have to get used to me.

No hiding, no shadows. Just all of me.

With a towel slung around my neck, I head toward the pool area. The faint scent of chlorine grows stronger with each step, bringing me closer to her. I can feel my heart rate picking up again, anticipation building with every moment.

A week has never felt so long.