Page 112 of Devil's Iris
Absolute silence.
An ominous chill creeps down my spine, and suddenly I know, as surely as the sun rises, that someone is inside this house with me. And if Ethan isn’t answering, if it’s not my brother, then?—
Oh, fuck.
My throat closes up tight as I glance at the door.
I need to be smart about how I play this.
Whoever is in here most likely has bad intentions and won’t just let me leave —or they would’ve announced themselves by now. My arm throbs with a painful ache that takes my breath away. Is it the person who shot at me? Are they here to finish the job?
Every instinct I have is screaming at me to run. Turn around, throw open the door, and sprint as far away as possible.
Run. Run. Run.
But I might get shot in the back of the head if I do.
I have no doubt my uninvited guest is nearby and probably watching me right now, waiting to see what I’ll do.
My pulse is hammering so loud in my ears I can barely think straight. Trying to look casual, I slip my hand into my purse and, without taking my phone out where they can see it, I dial Romero’s number.
40
ROMERO
The stench of burnt flesh and piss hangs heavy in the room.
Blood drips in a steady rhythm onto the tarp spread beneath the chair where Mikkel’s man slumps. The piece of shit who shot at my fucking wife. His hand—what’s left of it—dangles limply over the armrest.
I squat in front of the fucker, bringing my eyes level with his ruined face. “I’m only going to ask you one last time. Where the fuck is Mikkel?”
His head lolls to the side as he whimpers, his eye—the one that isn’t swollen shut—a kaleidoscope of purple and black courtesy of my knuckles. When he tries to speak, blood bubbles at the corner of his mouth.
“What was that?” I grab his chin, jerking his face towards mine. “Speak up.”
“I—I don’t… know…” Each word is a struggle, punctuated by ragged breathing, his face twisted in agony.
My smile turns cold as I release his chin. “Wrong fucking answer.”
I reach for my favorite toy on the table next to me—the blowtorch that’s already given his left hand that lovely charcoalaesthetic. See, I’m not completely heartless. I cauterized those stumps so he wouldn’t bleed out too quickly. The right hand, though? That’s still leaking like a broken faucet. Also missing fingers—fingers he used to pull the trigger, that tried to end my wife’s life.
“Romero.” Sandro’s urgent voice cuts through the sudden squealing panic as I lift the blowtorch towards the fucker’s face.
“Not now.” I don’t turn around, too focused on flicking the torch to life. The blue flame dances, hungry and eager.
“Your phone’s ringing.”
“They can leave a fucking message,” I snap. The torch hisses as I adjust the flame, already imagining how pretty those scorch marks will look across his remaining eye.
There’s a brief pause behind me. Then, carefully, like he knows he’s stepping into dangerous territory by continuing to speak, Sandro says in a low whisper. “It’s Leni.”
The blowtorch goes dead in my hand.
Every muscle in my body goes stiff as I turn my head slowly towards him.
Leni.
I haven’t let myself think about her since she left last night. Every time her face slips into my mind—that look of raw hurt and betrayal when she confronted me—my heart throbs like an open wound, leaving me hollow.
