Page 27 of Alessio DeLuca

“Honey, I’m home,” he sing-songs, sauntering into the room like a predator. “Miss me?”

I set my jaw, fury and fear warring for dominance in my mind. I won’t cower, won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me break.

“Fuck you,” I rasp, my voice rough and alien to my own ears.

His smile widens. In the stuttering light of the single bare bulb, his face is ghostly, all gleaming teeth and cavernous eyes.

“Still got that fire in you, I see. Good. It’ll make shutting it down even better.”

He crouches in front of me, his sour breath washing over my face as he tangles rough fingers in my hair. I try to jerk away, but he just tightens his grip, forcing me to meet his cold, dead gaze.

“I’ve been looking forward to this,” he murmurs, his free hand tracing the curve of my cheek with mock tenderness. “Ever since you left me to rot when you ran off with your fucking mobster.”

His thumb digs into the soft flesh beneath my eye, hard enough to bruise. I stifle a whimper, refusing to give him the response he craves.

“I didn’t…” I start, but he cuts me off with a sharp jerk of my hair.

“Shut the fuck up,” he hisses, spittle flecking his lips. “I don’t wanna hear any more of your fucking lies.”

He leans in closer, his voice dropping to a heinous whisper. “I’m gonna break you, little Maty. I’m gonna shatter your body and your mind until there’s nothing left.” His grin turns feral. “Then I’m gonna dangle your broken corpse in front of Alessio DeLuca and watch him crumble.”

Ice floods my veins, horror and revulsion twisting my gut. “No,” I choke out, renewing my struggles despite the bite of rope into my torn flesh. “No, Ghost, please…”

He laughs, releasing me with a shove that rocks me back in the chair. Rising to his feet, he cracks his neck, rolling his shoulders like a boxer before a fight.

“Begging already? Damn, this is gonna be easier than I thought.”

He nods to his minions. “Hold her steady, boys. Let’s get started.”

They move to flank me, meaty hands clamping down on my shoulders with bruising force. I thrash in their grip, bile rising in my throat as Ghost reaches into his waistband and withdraws a wicked-looking hunting knife.

The blade catches the light, glinting with deadly promise as he weaves it through his fingers. Each deft movement is calculated, meant to stoke my fear to an inferno.

It’s working. Oh god, it’s fucking working.

Sweat beads on my brow, my pulse a drum beat in my ears. I can’t breathe, can’t think. All I can do is watch in mute, paralyzed dread as he closes in, that merciless steel flashing closer and closer…

And then, from somewhere beyond the screaming panic of my mind, I hear it.

A dull, rhythmic thud, like distant thunder drawing near. It’s barely audible at first, easily dismissed as a trick of my broken mind.

But Ghost hears it too. I see it in the way his head cocks, his brow furrowing as his beady eyes flick to the door.

The thuds grow louder, more distinct, until they resolve into a sound I know deep in my soul.

Gunfire.

Ghost’s eyes widen, a vein pulsing at his temple. For a single, amazing second, I see fear chase surprise across his features.

“What the fuck…?” he starts, but before he can finish the thought, the door explodes in a hail of splintered wood and shrieking metal.

I flinch back, throwing up my bound hands in instinctive defense. Through the ringing in my ears and the smoke filling the air, I see dark figures pouring into the room, the strobing beams of flashlights cutting harshly through the chaos.

Ghost and his men are shouting, scrabbling for weapons. The flashlights swivel, pinning them in stark relief as a voice booms out, deep and commanding and achingly, impossibly familiar.

“Drop it, you son of a bitch.”

Then all hell breaks loose.

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