Page 39 of Bitter Prince
Looking at Ghost, I asked, “Any problems?”
It was obvious he had no difficulty finding Roberto.
He shrugged. “Nope.”
“He say anything?”
Ghost didn’t bother answering. He might have switched back to his birth name, but his habits remained the same. Whether he went by Kingston or Ghost, it didn’t matter. He was a killer. The best tracker.
Dante ended up answering when Kingston stayed mute. “He’s been quiet. I don’t think he’s grasped the severity of the situation yet.”
“He will. Very soon.”
I continued toward Roberto, where he was strapped to a chair. Grinning, I pulled over another chair and sat facing him.
“You put Rohypnol into a girl’s drink.”
I unsheathed my knife and shoved it into his thigh, turning it sharply. He screamed like a baby.
“You shouldn’t have touched her.” My voice vibrated with barely restrained anger. “How many women have you roofied in my club?” Roberto’s eyes widened and he gaped like a fish out of water. Open. Close. Nothing came out. “What was that? I didn’t hear you.”
“She’s the only one,” he whimpered.
I didn’t know what enraged me more: the fact that he’d singled Reina out, or that he was probably lying to me. Just the idea that he could have touched her, hurt her, had red creeping from my vision and covering the room with it. Roberto kept muttering, but his voice was distorted by the rage rushing through me.
I got in his face, the stench of smoke and his cheap aftershave making my lip curl. A ball of fire raged in my chest while his eyes twitched with terror.
My fingers wrapped around his throat and I squeezed, choking him. I shoved him with all my strength, slamming his body onto the ground—chair and all. His skull hit hard and I brought him back into an upright position.
“You fucked with the wrong woman,” I growled. “Bring me a cleaver, Dante.”
He made his way to the table that held multiple weapons and came to my side, handing it to me. I started with his right pinky, then moved on to the next finger. And the next. Until he had no fingers left.
He screamed. He cried. He begged for mercy.
There was none—not from me, not from Dante, and certainly not from Kingston. A moment later, Dante was beside me, holding him down as he kicked and thrashed. I jerked his pants down while he screamed like a bitch.
I gripped the knife and stabbed him in the thigh. “Fuuuuck,” he screamed. “Please stop. Fucking stop.”
I brought my face closer to him, smiling coldly. “Oops, I missed your tiny dick.”
Then I brought my knife down again, this time right on his cock. His screams pitched so high they just about pierced my eardrums. I moved on to his balls next, stabbing his left first. He choked a gurgle, and I shot up and stepped back just as he retched, puking his guts out.
The sea of blood pooled around him as he twitched, slumping in the chair.
He wouldn’t survive the night.
* * *
“Oba said you brought a girl to her restaurant.”
My mother’s greeting rushed us straight to the point of her visit. I wasn’t surprised to find her at my door before dawn cracked over the horizon. Or that she’d heard about Reina. I was just surprised that it took her this long.
Wearing nothing but sweatpants, I pulled the door open to let her in. I had just gotten to bed half an hour ago, ready to crash for the night—or more like day—after the whole fiasco of my former friend drugging Reina. If there was such a thing as bad timing, this was it, but I could never tell that to my mother.
“Is that the only reason you’re in Paris?” I asked.
She nodded, walking in, her steps short in her pink kimono as my mind reluctantly flickered to Reina. It seemed she and my mother had something in common. They both had a fascination with the color.
