Page 108 of Sadistic

"No?" His eyebrows rise. "He makes many decisions without you, doesn't he?"

The words hit like a slap because they're true. So true, it hurts. I stay silent.

He holds up the gift box. "I brought this for your wedding. Seems a shame to waste it."

"I don't want?—"

"Please." He sets it on the counter between us. "Do you know what disrespect costs in my world, Miss Peerson?"

"Is that a threat?"

"It's a question." His smile never wavers, but his eyes are cold. "Two prospects died because your father refused to negotiate. What do you think happens when your fiancé insults me?"

My mouth goes dry.

Beside me, Dalla reaches for her phone.

"Please," Bembe says without looking at her. "Let's keep this civilized. No need to disturb anyone."

Dalla freezes, phone halfway out of her purse.

"Here's what concerns me," he continues conversationally, like we're discussing the weather. "I know your sister's class schedule the same way I know yours. Dalla is pre-med, Tuesday and Thursday labs that run until ten PM. I know your parents' routines—your mother's weekly grocery trip to Publix on Wednesday mornings, always parks in the same spot. Your father's Sunday rides with the club, the route they take up the highway."

Each detail is a bullet, precise and terrifying.

He's showing me exactly how vulnerable we are.

"I know your friend Elfe works the late shift at Bubba's on Wednesdays and Fridays, walks to her car alone at 2 AM." He adjusts his cufflinks. "Pretty girl. Trusting. Always parks under that broken streetlight."

My voice cracks. "You're threatening my family?"

"I'm having a conversation about respect." He straightens his tie. "And consequences. Your fiancé seems to think his nameprotects you. That his money, his men, his reputation make you untouchable."

He leans closer, and I smell expensive cologne mixed with cigar smoke.

"Bulletproof glass is impressive," he muses. "But everyone has to leave their car eventually. Everyone has patterns. Weaknesses. People they love."

"If you touch them?—"

"What? What will you do?" His mask slips for a moment, showing the killer beneath. "You have no power here, little girl. Only what men like your father and fiancé allow you. And they've made a mess of things, haven't they?"

"Reyes."

The voice cuts through the department store like a blade.

Doran appears between the racks of designer shoes, Mikhail at his shoulder.

The very air seems to shift, predator recognizing predator.

Even the other shoppers sense it, unconsciously moving away from the sudden tension.

Doran looks lethal in his black suit, eyes locked on Bembe like he wants to kill him, right here, right now.

He moves like he can barely contain the violence in his veins, each step measured and dangerous.

Bembe's smile widens. "Volkolv. Just meeting your lovely bride. She's even prettier than surveillance photos suggest."

Doran moves to my side in three quick strides.

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