Page 13 of Captive Vows
Between moans and wheezing inhales, he could barely lift his head. Yet, I forced him to get up anyway. I’d be damned if I bent to accommodate him.
Emil and another guard dragged the broken man to the only thing in the room. A chair that he’d likely been tied to could barely keep him upright. So I gave him a hand. It was the least I could do. Gripping his hair, I twisted tightly until he screamed. With that hold, I wrenched his head up so he’d face me.
If he could.
Both eyes were swollen. One wouldn’t open at all.
Yet, he was paying attention to me. Begging.
“Please, Boss. It won’t happen again. I swear it won’t.”
The stupid fool was under the impression I’d ever let him near any official Dubinin business again. It went without saying that he was fired. Fired and awaiting punishment. “Oh?”
“No. I swear. I’ll never lie again. I’ll never sell any intel ever again. Just please, let me live.”
How the supposedly mighty fall. I rolled my eyes. “No, I’m not here to kill you.”
“You’re… not?” He sniffled, disgusting me and annoying me more.
“No. I expect a much more personal currency.”
He stiffened, moving his thighs closer together. I couldn’t blame him for worrying he’d be raped or otherwise abused like that. It would be a fear for anyone, but that wasn’t our style.
“More personal like this.” I dropped the file Emil had given me. He’d grabbed it when we left my office, and I used it as a prop now.
“Like what?” Miguel asked, trying to lower his head. I still held on to his hair. Releasing him with a shove, I stepped back and waited for him to reach for the papers on his lap. They’d scattered. A couple of photos fell to the bloody floor. But with a weak slowness as if his arm were broken, he moved his fingersto pick up a page. Then, straining to move again, he brought the photo closer to his face to peer at it as though his vision were compromised.
“Gabriella?” he whispered.
“Your daughter,” I confirmed. Clasping my hands behind my back, I paced from side to side.
“You… want Gabriella?” he asked, confusion clear in his shaky, tired tone.
“No. I don’twanther,” I replied. He was a moron to assume I’d lust for his child. As I paced past a fallen photograph of a young woman at a dance studio, her back to the camera, I huffed a weak laugh. Like some teenager would enticeme. “I expect you to give her to me.”
He didn’t reply for a long moment. “You want me to give you my daughter? In exchange for my freedom?”
“You will deliver her to me,” I stated plainly, not replying to the matter of whether he’d be free after he saw through this act of giving me his child. I could still very well decide to end his life, but it would not happen without a payment of something of his. That was how it worked. This was how I restored the balance of justice in a world where I was the king to dictate the rules.
“My daughter?” he repeated, at a loss and starting to look more like the nervous man I recognized him as. No, he wasn’t a man. Just a rat. A liar. The worst kind of traitor.
He lowered his gaze, deepening the lines of wrinkles on his brow that were already red from a beating. Dried blood cracked on his face, the only indication that I could reliably follow to guess that he was frowning.
“Youwantmydaughter?” he asked.
It wasn’t a matter of his being confused about what I was demanding.
With the emphasis of that last repeated question, he seemed unable to comprehend why I, the Boss, would be so taken withhis daughter. I laughed loudly, truly amused that he’d be so bold as to assume that his daughter was anything special. That she was something rare that evenIwould covet.
“Don’t overthink it,” I teased, tapping his head hard as I paced past him.
“Oh—” He cleared his throat. “Okay.” A feeble nod accompanied his reply. “If that’s what you want…”
Again, I didn’twanther. It wasn’t a matter of needing to possess his daughter over any other woman. It was the basic transaction of stealing something of value of his. To right his wrong, or at least to start that concept.
“I will bring her to you,” he said. Nervous and skeptical, he spoke slowly, as if testing out the words to see if they were the right ones to tell me.
“You’ll sacrifice your daughter?” I asked again. The more that I witnessed him caving and complying, the more I despised him. I’d take Gabriella whether he wanted me to have her or not. In fact, kidnapping her and holding her captive would’ve been an alternative to informing him of his payment and punishment. One on hand, this could’ve been psychological torture in itself. To give him the idea to get used to it. To torment him with the premonition of pending loss.
