Page 161 of Ugly Beautiful Scars

Victor is evil incarnate—a black hole where a human being should be—but right now, playing by his rules is the only card I have left. And the rule is simple: truth or death.

A slight eyebrow twitch finally cracks Victor's face. It's not quite surprise, but maybe the suggestion of it. It's a ripple in the perfect stillness of a predator's focus.

"Hmm." The sound bounces around this death chamber. "Most men try to run from their fates, so I can respect that you're here to face yours."

I nod once. "I came to offer—"

Victor lifts a hand, palm out, and the words die in my throat. He doesn't need to raise his voice and he doesn't need to threaten me. His smallest movement is a command that expects immediate obedience.

He tips his chin slightly toward the gargoyles, and they move. One steps left, the other right, then they're on me.

The first blow catches me just below the ribs and something cracks. The air is forced from my lungs in an explosive rush. The second punch connects with my kidney, sending shockwaves of pain radiating outward.

I don't fight back. Fighting would signal disrespect, and disrespect would mean instant death. Instead, I let myself fold where their fists direct me, accepting each blow as payment for a debt I owe.

Another strike cracks across my jaw. Copper floods my mouth as my teeth slice into the soft flesh of my cheek. My knees buckle, but I don't fall. Not yet.

The next hit takes that choice away.

A boot connects with my sternum as I fold toward the concrete floor. My face scrapes against the rough cement. White-hot pain blooms across my ribcage with each shallow breath. I think two ribs are cracked now.

These guys are pretty efficient at what they do.

A goon moves in for a kick to my kidneys, boot already swinging in an arc, when Victor's voice slices through the room.

"Enough."

One word, and the violence evaporates. These men are so perfectly trained they can turn brutality on and off like a faucet. The realization chills me more than the concrete beneath my cheek.

"Stand up."

Blood is spilling from my mouth and each breath is a lung full of daggers. For a moment, I think I might puke, adding one more bodily fluid to whatever this floor has absorbed over the years. But I swallow it down—the nausea, the pain, the urge to stay curled in a protective ball.

I push myself up. One elbow, then the other. Knees beneath me. One foot planted. Finally, I'm standing.

The room tilts and spins but I force myself upright, shoulders back, chin level. No weakness. Not here. Not now. My left eye is already swelling shut. Blood is smeared on my face, but I resist the urge to wipe it away. Let it flow. Let him see what I can take.

Victor studies me, which is exactly what I want. I need him to see the value in what I'm about to offer.

His head tilts half an inch, the gesture birdlike. "You've caused me a lot of problems with my supply chains. It won't be easy to replace Alan. He was well-connected and always met deadlines. I told you, I hate training new men."

I meet his gaze steadily. "I know."

"Yet you still failed."

"Yes."

Victor snaps his fingers and one of the gargoyles steps forward with a manila folder. He hands it to me. As I reach for it, Victor says, "You must not care much for your friends."

His tone makes my knees want to buckle. I open the folder with clumsy fingers. The photos inside cause me more pain than the beating I just endured.

I don't want to look at them, but I force myself.

Mike.

The photos are the story of his demise. The beating. The dismemberment. The way they sunk the pieces of his body in the ocean.

Seeing his last moments is a torment that smashes through me like a wrecking ball, shattering whatever composure I've managed to maintain. I sway back a step as the images blur behind tears.

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