Page 7 of Bought By Santa

“Talking’s the easy part.” My lips pull back in a grim smile. Making him survive what comes after—that’s the tricky piece.

We reach the door, and I push it open with a measured force. Inside, dull light flickers from a swinging bulb, casting eerie shadows on the walls. The mole, a once-trusted lieutenant named George, squirms on a metal chair, duct tape criss-crossing his mouth, wrists secured behind his back.

My heart thrums, a rhythmic drumroll to the impending violence. I step forward, yanking off the tape, and his pleas spill out, desperate and garbled.

“Please, Nicklas, I didn’t—”

“Save it for someone who gives a damn,” I snap, cutting him off. My hands are steady as I select a knife from my kit, its blade gleaming ominously. “Who else is involved?” I demand, pressing the cold steel against his throat just enough to see a bead of blood.

“Nobody, I swear,” he gasps, but the tremor in his voice betrays his lie.

“Wrong answer.” I press harder, letting the fear seep into his bones. It’s all about control—making him realize that every breath is a privilege, granted by me.

“Okay! Okay!” His eyes bulge, wild with panic. “There are others… but I don’t know names. They contacted me anonymously.”

I scoff, not for one second believing that the fucking rat doesn’t know more than that. Realizing he needs further convincing, I cut his shirt from his torso before slamming the knife into his shoulder, taking a sick enjoyment in his pained howls and cries.

“Is that all you know?” I ask as I pull the knife out, slowly so he feels every inch.

His breathing is ragged, and despite the freezing cold, sweat beads on his forehead. “Meetings… they happened at night, always in different locations. Encrypted messages,” he rushes out.

I pat his cheek condescendingly. “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“How many?” Jack asks from behind me.

“I-I—”

Sensing that George is about to lie again, I interrupt him. “Don’t lie to my brother,” I sneer. “Just because I have other places to be tonight, doesn’t mean I won’t keep you alive until I have more time to make you regret ever crossing me.”

“Please!” he screams, his eyes wild. “I… I don’t know anything—”

“Do you know the locations?” Jack cuts in. The way George averts his gaze is very telling. “Give them to me.”

“An old bar, The Filthy Oar. A parking garage on West End…” George continues, voice faltering.

Jack’s fingers fly over a tablet, noting everything down with ruthless efficiency.

I’m pretty sure George has told us everything he knows, so I mumble, “Good boy.” I hesitate long enough to see hope bloom on his face, and then I slam the knife into his stomach, slicing downwards so his guts spill out on the floor.

“Was that really necessary?” Jack asks dryly. “Now we need cleanup.”

I shrug, “We’re going to need that, regardless. Just email them so we can leave.”

“Already on it, brother.” Jack’s response is clipped, filled with the same urgency coursing through my veins.

We exit into the night, the air thick with the promise of a storm brewing. I can feel the weight of the family name on my shoulders, a mantle forged in blood and secrecy. Jack’s busy typing on the tablet as we head back to the car.

As we slide into the seats, the engine roars to life, mirroring the turmoil inside me. The docks fade behind us, but the darkness lingers, whispering of treachery yet to be uncovered.

“Next steps?” Jack asks.

“We hunt every last one of these rats down,” I snarl.

Chapter 4

The Breeder

The pulsing beat of the club’s music vibrates through my heels, up my legs, as I weave through the crowd. Each step is confident, a calculated sway designed to draw gazes. My dress clings to every curve—a shimmering second skin that I’ll return by tomorrow’s light, its price tag a hidden whisper against my thigh.

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