by CJ Bishop
“Good.” He walked around Carter’s chair, his stride slow, calculated, his cowboy boots echoing dully on the concrete floor. Carter flinched, his pulse spiking, when the man slid his fingers through his hair from behind and lightly gripped as he stopped moving and leaned down. “If you tell me something I really don’t like—even if it is the truth—I’m going to hurt you anyway. You curse at me and my Egyptian friend here will cut out your tongue.” He squeezed his strands a fraction tighter. “We’re not strangers, Carter, so I know I don’t have to worry that you’re not taking me serious, do I?”
Carter swallowed hard. “No. I…I know you’re serious.”
The cowboy leaned closer. “Do you know what the biggest mistake of your life was?”
Carter shuddered, unsure how he was supposed to answer.
The cowboy answered for him. “Choosing the wrong side. You thought because Quinton was the boss’ son—the new boss now that daddy was dead—that he was the smart choice to hitch your wagon to. But a truly smart man would have seen that Quinton was crazy, a loose cannon, and not an adequate leader. But you…” He yanked Carter’s head back. “…are not a smart man. Had you any sense at all, you would have left the city when you had the chance. Ray stayed…and look what became of him? He went after my brother Gabriel, and that shit don’t fly around here.” His fist clenched, wrenching Carter’s roots. “No one fucks with my own and lives to tell the story.” His fist loosened and he released Carter’s hair. “But you already know that, Carter, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Carter rasped.
The cowboy walked around in front of him and stood with his hands clamped on his hips. He looked down at Carter from beneath the brim of his cowboy hat. “I know some interesting things about you, too. Would you like to know what they are?”
Carter sat rigid, heart pounding. There was a hell of a lot things about himself he didn’t want the cowboy to know.
“I know…” the cowboy clasped his hands loosely behind his back and paced back and forth in front of Carter. “…that you prefer fucking young, defenseless boys because they can’t fight back when you hurt them. I know that, more often than not, you have to snort your shit powder before you can get it up enough to fuck your young boys. I know you hate men your own size because during your little stint in prison, your ass was passed around like free-for-all fuck-hole. And now, you only choose boys so you can hurt and abuse them the way you were abused in prison.” He stepped closer and leaned down, gripping the arms of the chair, his face just inches from Carter, eyes cold and deadly. “Even a man like me might have been able to drum up some sympathy for your worthless ass after the treatment you suffered in lockup. But when the abused becomes the abuser…my shallow well of sympathy runs dry.” His eyes narrowed. “But it wasn’t all bad in there, was it? You had a roommate, didn’t you? A weasley little fucker who let you take out your rage and frustration on him. A little motherfucker by the name of…Johnny Bale.”
Carter stiffened, his heart pumping hard and fast.
Oh fuck—fuck—fuck!
•
Cruz caught Clint’s last words as he and Sanchez entered the guest room. Guest room. That’s what Clint had named it because it was where they brought their extra-special “guests” who required special treatment.
Johnny Bale. The name hung in the air as their current guest sat chained to the chair, a look of terror on his face—a common expression exhibited by most of their guests.
“Johnny Bale,” Sanchez murmured to Cruz. “Wasn’t he…”
Cruz nodded; Johnny Bale had murdered Nathan Sanitini while Nathan was in prison. It was later discovered that Nathan’s own son—Quinton—had orchestrated his execution in order to gain control of the family.
And cash in on Gabriel’s life-debt owed to the Sanitini family. As Cruz understood it, the man had been obsessed with Gabriel, harboring lust/hate feelings for him. Quinton had been aware that his own father revered Gabriel above him. But that had been Quinton’s fault—the man was insane.
Cruz eyed the man in the chair. One of Quinton’s men. He had been in prison with Johnny Bale? Was he also involved with Nathan’s murder? If so, Cruz was damn glad he wasn’t in his shoes. Nathan Sanitini was the only father figure Clint had ever known, the man who had salvaged what was left of the cowboy’s humanity, and made him part of the Sanitini family. Nathan’s death had hit the family hard—those who weren’t rallied around Quinton.
Straightening up, Clint turned around. “You’re here. Good.”
Cruz approached him. “He did his stint with Johnny Bale?”
Clint nodded.
“And regarding Nathan’s death?”
“He helped Bale take him out.”
Cruz looked past the cowboy to the guest. “Stupid motherfucker.”
“Yes, he is.”
The four men formed a half-circle around the guest. Cochise slowly dragged his knife from its sheath and toyed with the blade, his face like granite as his cold gray eyes rested heavy on their captive. Cruz would trust the Egyptian with his life—yet a cold chill nevertheless wriggled down his spine at the man’s deadly stare.
“I believe in telling the truth, even when it hurts,” Clint said. “And the truth is…you’re going to die today. But I also believe in giving a man options, whether he deserves them or not. So, here are your options.”
The guest stared up at the cowboy, wholly aware that his fate was sealed.
“You cooperate and tell us what we want to know, and I’ll kill you quick.” Clint drilled him with a chilling stare. “You lie or become disruptive…my boys and I, we get creative and we extend your reservation here in the guest room for a few more days. Cochise here…well, I don’t have to tell you about him. I’m sure you’ve heard rumors of which body part he enjoys removing first.”
Cochise moved away from the small group, pulled on a pair of blacksmith’s gloves, grabbed an ash shovel and a metal bucket, and walked over to the 55-gallon drum. He filled the bucket to the brim with burning coals and brought them over, setting the bucket on the floor next to the man’s chair.
“I-I’ll cooperate—I will!” His eyes bulged as he stared down at the bucket.
“I like an incentive,” Clint said and nodded at Cochise. The Egyptian drew the empty bucket from under the chair and dumped the coals in.
“What-what is he doing? What the fuck is he doing?”
Clint smiled coolly. “Wouldn’t want you to forget you’re in the hot seat.”
The Egyptian slid the bucket back under the chair, the seat of which was thin metal and mere inches above the pail of scalding coals.
It took only moments for the man to start feeling the heat. “Fuck! I told you I would talk, God dammit!”
“What did the cowboy say about being disruptive?” Cruz asked, taking the tone of an adult with a child.
The man’s face twitched, a fuck you! look in his eyes. But behind that look, it was evident he understood that it was he himself who was fucked.
•
Caterina didn’t tell her godfather she was leaving. She didn’t want questions about where she was going or who she was going to see. Multiple times on her way to Flynn’s apartment, she found herself stalled at a stoplight, staring blankly across the intersection, only to be pulled out of her troubled thoughts by the inevitable blaring horn.
What was she doing? What would she say to him? What could she say? Tell him that she suspected he killed her ex, but go ahead and give his side of the story? That would fly like a lead balloon. She knew that what she really wanted was to be convinced he didn’t do it. But any way she looked at it—she would have to admit to him that he was implicated in the murder. And what if he didn’t deny it?
Caterina sat for a long time in her car, parked outside Flynn’s apartment building. She was shaking and couldn’t stop. Could she really go through with this? How could the killer be Flynn? Did she really believe it—despite the evidence against him?
The last two nights reformulated in he
r mind and she closed her eyes, resting her head on the steering wheel. Flynn had felt so right, his touch perfect, his passion unlike anything she had experienced with Armand. Deep down, she had started to believe he was the one. Everything about them was perfect.
How do you know? You don’t even know him. All you know is what an incredible lover he is. Even killers can be great in bed.
What if she was wrong? Maybe Flynn had nothing to do with any of it. Maybe the stripper’s description was off, or she was describing someone else who happened to resemble Flynn.
If you’re so certain it couldn’t be him, then why are you sitting out here instead of going up to his apartment? Are you afraid of him now?
She raised her head and looked at the apartment building. Tears distorted her vision. No—she wasn’t afraid of him. Maybe she should be, but…she wasn’t.
Caterina left the car and crossed the street, entering the building. Her conviction wavered when she was standing outside his door. She hesitated then knocked, her heart racing furiously, making it hard to breathe.
The door opened and Flynn stood before her in jeans and an open button shirt, showing off his fit torso. An instant tingle invaded her fingers as she ached to touch him, caress his warm skin, strong muscles…and beg him to take her to bed and love away every shred of doubt that tormented her heart and mind.
“Caterina,” he said quietly. “Is something wrong? Why did you need to see me again so soon?” He seemed to catch himself and smiled. “Not that I mind seeing you again so soon.”
Caterina released a shaky breath and blinked back her tears. “Can I come in?” she whispered thickly.
He frowned and nodded, backing up and motioning her inside. “You seem upset.” He closed the door behind her. “What is it?”
Just do it and get it over with. She swallowed unsteadily and looked him in the eye, her voice trembling as she said, “Armand is…dead.”
CHAPTER 21
“The Devil’s Advocate”
______________________________________________
“God, please! I’ll tell you anything!” The seat of the chair was turning red hot beneath Carter’s ass, scorching his pants and blistering his cheeks. “Fuck!” He clutched the armrests and frantically tried to lift his ass. His chained wrists and ankles allowed for only minimal movement.
The cowboy nodded at the Egyptian who remained squatted beside Carter’s chair, and the man slid the bucket out. The burning torture remained until the seat slowly began to cool. Carter shuddered, his throat constricted. He choked on a gasp, sweat trickling down his temples.
“Now that we understand one another,” Clint murmured. “We can begin.”
Carter trembled, waiting for the interrogation to start.
“Tell me what you know about these rumors floating around.”
“What rumors?”
The cowboy stared at him. “Do we need to get a fresh bucket of coals?”
Carter trembled and shook his head.
“The rumors of the Albanian mob rebuilding its forces.”
It didn’t matter what Carter said—he was dead in the end. But crossing these men would only get him days of excruciating torture before they rewarded him with death. “It…it’s true. They’ve been quietly recruiting men, and rounding up the old members who scattered when the family was taken down.”
The younger of the Spanish fellows—a Santiago, Carter believed—came forward, eyes narrowed. “How do you know about the Albanian mob? You were one of Quinton Sanitini’s men. How is it you know the truth of these rumors?” He leaned down, hands clamping Carter’s wrists, face just inches away. “Are you one of their recruits?”
The guy was younger than the cowboy but his eyes warned he was equally deadly. Carter rasped, “Sort of.”
Straightening up, the Spaniard—who, when inspected up close, appeared to have a bit of Italian in him as well—looked at the cowboy, who addressed Carter. “Sort of? Meaning?”
Carter’s eyes darted uneasily to the Santiago man. The truth could get him the hot seat again. But he knew about the cowboy, and the man was a master at detecting lies. “I’ve been a part of their mob since before Nathan Sanitini died,” he mumbled.
The four men couldn’t disguise their shock. “What?” the cowboy growled.
Carter swallowed, his ass cheeks still stinging, and now clenching in fear of more heat. “I wasn’t the only one,” he admitted. “Quinton, Ray, and all Quinton’s men. We were all a part of it.”
His brow cinching hard, the cowboy spoke low, chilling. “Tell me every fucking detail.”
•
The genuine shock on Flynn’s face gave Caterina a measure of hope; could he fake it this well if he’d already known? Or was he reacting to her having found out about it so soon? She didn’t want a second option—just the first one.
“I, uh…” he slid his hand slowly across his mouth, a troubled frown on his face. “I don’t know what to say. Do the cops know who did it?”
“I don’t know,” Caterina whispered. “I haven’t spoken to them yet.”
He stared at her, a new anxiety squeezing his brow. “You weren’t the one who…” he licked his lips. “You didn’t…find him, did you?” He appeared sincerely concerned that she might have been the one to discover his dead body.
“No. My brother and his boyfriend found him.”
Flynn stared at the floor, one hand clamped to the back of his neck. “How did he die?”
“He was shot,” Caterina said thickly. “But he’d been beaten first.”
The notable tension in Flynn filled her with dread. “Beaten?”
“Yeah.” Her eyes involuntarily drifted to his scraped knuckles, then up to his face. He was staring at her as he slowly flexed his right hand.
“You think I did it.” It was a simple statement, without malice.
“No, I…” Caterina stammered, her throat knotting. Tears started to form as she just looked at him.
“That’s why you wanted to talk to me.” Flynn sighed and walked into the kitchen.
Caterina stood unmoving, her tears thickening. She blinked and forced her feet to move as she followed after him. “Flynn, I-I don’t know what I thought, but…”
He stood at the sink, gripping the edge, shoulders hunched and head down.
“Just tell me you had nothing to do with it and I’ll believe you.”
He didn’t speak or move.
“He can’t tell you that. Not without lying, anyway.” The sudden male voice behind her, startled Caterina and she gasped, spinning around. She stared wide-eyed at the man leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest.
Flynn jerked around and drilled him with a cold glare. “What the hell are doing here? I told you not to come back.”
The man shrugged and smiled coolly. “I knew you didn’t mean it. Besides, I was eager to meet the amazing woman who could get your balls in a twist and cause you to disregard all the simple rules of fucking that I taught you.”
“Get out.”
Caterina backed away, putting distance between her and the newcomer.
“Don’t be scared, honey,” the guy grinned. “I’m not the one who’s out to hurt you.” His eyes turned deliberately to Flynn, and Caterina’ s stare followed, her gut pinching with dread and uncertainty.
“Don’t listen to him, Caterina,” Flynn said tightly. “I would never hurt you.”
The man looked at Caterina. “What excuse did he give you for his scraped-up knuckles?” He smiled dully. “Bet it wasn’t the truth.”
“Shut up,” Flynn hissed and came forward threateningly. “Get the fuck out of my apartment.”
The man ignored him as his focus remained on Caterina. “Did he tell you that he hunted down your ex and beat the fuck out of him?”
Caterina looked at Flynn, eyes wide.
“And when he finished using his fists—he put a bullet in his brain.” He chuckled. “Damn, he must truly be in love with you to go to such extremes
to make sure your ex stays out of your life.”
“You fucking liar!” Flynn raged, a spark of fear in his eyes as he looked quick at Caterina. “I did not kill him, Caterina. I swear to God I didn’t.” He went still suddenly and his stare shot back to the man. “It was you, wasn’t it? You’re the one who shot him.”
The man shrugged again. “Maybe. Maybe not. But I wasn’t the one who used him as a human punching bag.”
“Flynn…” Caterina trembled.
Flynn swallowed hard, his breath quick. “I…” he shook his head. “I did find him and…and I did beat him. But I didn’t kill him.”
Her vision swam and head began to spin. “Why did you…”
“He was a danger to you, Caterina. Whether you really understood that or not. He would have ended up hurting you. I know I crossed a huge line, but I couldn’t take the chance of him harming you.”
Cruz had known Armand was a potential danger as well—and he had meant to do something about it. How was that different than what Flynn did?
“Aw, he was protecting you,” the man smirked. “How sweet and noble. You must be quite the fuck, that he would defend you so ferociously after just one night of getting his cock in you.” He looked her over with slow deliberation, causing unpleasant shivers to race up and down her spine. “Maybe after you dump his ass, I’ll take a turn. See if I find you as impressive a fuck as he did.”
Caterina hugged herself, real fear flooding in.
“And you will dump him…once you discover what he’s really up to.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Flynn glanced at Caterina and the look on his face—that look of fear that she might learn something he didn’t want her to know—churned up nausea in her gut.
“Did you really think your daddy wasn’t keeping a close eye on you?” the man asked. “Or that we wouldn’t know who your new little whore was?”
The kitchen swayed around Caterina; what the hell were they talking about? A chill swept up her spine and prickled the hair at the nape of her neck. Am I in danger? Cruz often spoke of his ‘gut feelings’ and how they had saved his life more than once. Was that what this was—a gut feeling, warning her that she needed to get out now?
