Page 72 of Tempting the Scoundrel
He could break this man so easily.
“Before I take my hand away from your disgusting fucking mouth,” Thorne hissed, “let me remind you: in the East End, you live by our permission.”
“Oh, I gave up my permission years ago,” O’Sullivan told Gibbons casually.
Thorne flashed his teeth. “Guess it’s by mine, then.” Gibbons made some muffled noise, but Thorne dug his fingers into the man’s jaw and spoke as if he weren’t interrupted. “And I want to know why you would make the fucking idiotic choice to return tomycity after I was generous enough to let you keep breathing. Speak.”
He took his hand away from Gibbons’ mouth and waited.
“I got family,” Gibbons said in a breathless voice. “Don’t fuckin’ kill me, I got—”
“I’ve never heard of any family,” Thorne said, his voice cold. “O’Sullivan?”
Behind the glint of his spectacles, O’Sullivan’s expression was hard. “He’s lying.”
“No.” Gibbons made some movement, but Thorne had him back against the wall. “I got a cousin”—Thorne’s gaze narrowed—“and I need just a bit o’ scratch, that’s all.”
“NowthatI do believe,” Thorne murmured. “You need money. And perhaps it’s a coincidence that you happened to be in my city days after some murders in my territory. But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
Gibbons’ eyes darted between Thorne and O’Sullivan. “‘Course not.”
Thorne slid his knife out of his coat and pressed the tip to the other man’s face. “Let’s try that answer again. Aye, O’Sullivan? What do you say about a second chance?”
O’Sullivan’s eyes glittered in the darkness. “Not for him.”
Thorne felt Gibbons tremble. “Hear that? O’Sullivan wants me to stick this blade in your gut. Why do you think that is?” Gibbons’ mouth opened and closed like a landed fish. “Tch. Reckon this one needs reminding, O’Sullivan.”
His friend’s hands curled into fists. “Oh, I don’t think he needs reminding. He knows. Don’t you, Gibbons?”
Gibbons’ breathing was rapid. “Now. Now, O’Sullivan, I did a lot of things—”
Thorne gave him a small nick with the edge of the blade. “So many things,” Thorne said with a bitter laugh. “ And one in particular. You were there when Whelan sold O’Sullivan to that toff who tortured him.”
“I didn’t—”
“Quiet,” Thorne said, sliding the blade down the man’s cheek in a caress that drew blood. Gibbons flinched, releasing a small whimper. “Here’s what I remember: you and the others taking us out of that cellar for the Earl of Sunderland to inspect like he was about to buy a goddamn horse. Fourteen years old, I was. O’Sullivan?”
O’Sullivan’s lips flattened. “Twelve.”
“Twelve,” Thorne repeated softly. “How much was O’Sullivan worth, Gibbons?” When the other man didn’t respond, Thorne whispered, “Five pounds. Five. Fucking. Pounds. Did you see any of that coin for forcing us all into that room? Or did Whelan not bother sharing any?”
Gibbons jerked, as if he were thinking of running, but Thorne held him fast. “Don’t remember.”
Thorne laughed again, the sound echoing through the empty street. Anyone nearby would turn the other way, if they heard it in the darkness. “Doesn’t remember. See, here’s the thing.Wedo.” Thorne stuck the knife into Gibbons’ chest—not far, but enough for the tip to break skin. Gibbons hollered, and this time Thorne didn’t bother to quiet him. He wanted to hear him scream. He wanted O’Sullivan to hear it, after all he went through. “But I requested a conversation. So how about you tell me where you were last Friday eve. We’ll start there.” The night they’d found Benjamin Ayles’ body.
“Oh Christ. You’ve—Oh Christ!”
“The lord ain’t gonna help you, Gibbons. Only the devil sullies himself with the Nichol, and tonight the devil answers to me.” He leaned forward and hissed, “Talk. Before I sink my blade into your heart.”
“I was here! At the Golden Lion.Here!”
“You believe him, O’Sullivan?”
O’Sullivan’s lip curled. “No.”
“Coincidence. Neither do I.” His knife sank in further. Gibbons screamed. “I’ll ask it again: where the fuck were you?”
“Here! I swear it. I swear—”
