Page 18 of The Toy Collector

“Make sure they’re checked in under fake names,” I urge. “The press hasn’t caught wind of this yet, but it’s only a matter of time after Jacobs resigns.”

As we get closer to Jacobs’ room, I notice more of Cy’s men hiding in plain sight. Each of them dressed in dark tactical gear and fully armed.

Cy doesn’t waste any time reaching for the piece resting at his lower back, pulling it out while holding the key card up against the electronic lock.

Click!

As soon as the door is unlocked, Cy kicks it open. “Weapons down. Pants up. This is your last civil request,” he orders.

The first thing that hits me is the heat from the bodies. From the violence still vibrating in the walls. It’s muggy with exertion and something almost sweet—like iron left out too long in the sun. The smell of sex and blood never lies.

“What the fuck?” Jacobs sputters, but he doesn’t stop thrusting into the mouth of the girl that was crying on the video I watched.

The room reeks of sweat, cheap cologne, and something darker—something coppery and raw. Blood. It’s faint, but present, clinging to the air like it’s soaked into the walls. It doesn’t smell like fear. It smells like rot. Like a man who’s done this before and stopped caringwhen it started to leave stains.

She looks young. Too fucking young. Big eyes, bloodshot, and full of fear. Her hair’s dark like Piper’s. Her lip’s split. And all I can think is—what if it washer?What if it had been my toy on her knees in this room?

The thought is enough to make me snap. With a roar, I lunge, grabbing Jacobs by the shoulders and throwing him across the room like he weighs nothing.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” I growl, balling my hands into fists to stop myself from reaching for him again.

My knuckles throb from the impact. The sharp bite of contact still lingers up my arm, like his filth tried to cling to my bones. The room still vibrates with the sound of the girl’s cries.

“Hey!” Cy exclaims. “You said no bruises.”

Turning my head, I shoot my friend my best are-you-fucking-kidding-me stare, but he just grins in return. I exhale sharply, forcing myself still. It’s not often I get my hands dirty like this. Not because I’m a good man. I’m not. I’ve killed and tortured. Watched men beg and then die when their begging bored me.

But someone like Jacobs? He’s beneath the weight of my personal attention. A maggot. A stain. The kind of rot that spreads only because no one wants to get their fingers filthy digging it out. And yet here I am—bone deep in it.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Senator Jacobs demands as he staggers to his feet, finally having the good grace to put his dick away. Seriously, no one wants to see that thing. Not even Mrs. Jacobs, I bet.

“You fucked up,” Cy declares, voice light, conversational. “Lorenzo here is very patient. Me? Not so much. So why don’t we skip the bullshit and get to the part where you listen very carefully?”

Jacobs exhales through his nose, squaring his shoulders. “I still have connections. I can fix this. There’s no need for—”

I laugh coldly. “Fix this? There’s nothing you can do to fix what you’ve done.” I take a step forward, letting the moment stretch just long enough for him to feel the weight of it.

Jacobs’ fingers twitch at his side as he wobbles, unable to stay still. Fuck me, he’s either drunk or high. Probably both.

“I don’t have time for this,” I grind out, gesturing to the women on the floor. “They need to be seen by a medical professional, and you need to fucking resign. Now.”

At my words, Cy’s team mills into the room that seems smaller with each body forcing their way in here. The men quickly gather the three women and carry them out of here. Though they don’t interfere, each of them makes sure to shoulder check the Senator as hard as possible.

Jacobs opens his mouth, but Cy cuts him off, tilting his head like he’s considering something deeply. “I have a question.” His voice is smooth, almost curious. “How many breaks does it take for a human hand to stop being useful?”

“Wh-what?” Jacobs sputters.

Cy ignores him and taps his chin. “I was watching a video the other day. Truly fascinating stuff. There’s this particular bone, right here…” Without warning, he grabs Jacobs’ hand, pressing a knuckle against it, making the man jerk back in reflex. “… snap that just right? Never quite heals properly.”

Jacobs’ breath turns uneven, the careful mask of power slipping from his face like melting wax. He knows. He knew the moment we stepped in, but knowing and accepting are two different things.

I lean closer. “The only thing left for you to decide is whether your family shares your fate.”

His entire body locks up. There it is. The breaking point. Letting go of Jacobs’ hand, Cy pulls out what looks like a resignation letter, probably prepared by Maria, and slaps it onto his chest.

“You resign. Publicly. And you make it sound like you’re retiring to spend more time with your family. Privately, I want you to pay three million to each woman as well as paying for their medical expenses. No loose ends, no last-minute pleas. You take the fall, and in return, I ensure your family never feels the weight of what you did,” I state, my tone icy.

His hands shake. Sweat drips from his temple. I smell panic now—tangy and sour. It replaces the stench of arrogance that used to cling to his suit like a badge. Now it’s just piss and fear and the faint, metallic sting of someone else’s pain.

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