Page 8 of The Wicked
“Yes.”
He nodded as his gaze settled on Angelo. “Have your people turn up the heat until she can’t breathe; record it.”
Fucking hell.
“And the others?” Angelo asked.
The Wicked glanced my way, his eyes moving from my head to my toes before he spoke. “Make them watch.”
I tried to wiggle my way out of the hold on the chair, my shoulder burning away with pain. “Please!” I cried out pathetically.
He turned, walking out of the room without a second glance. Angelo followed seconds after him.
I was panting, shivering in anger as the heat became unbearable. I groaned in pain. My shoulder wound was burning—and I was screaming and begging—again and again and again.
I used to think if I ever were in a situation like this, I would face it with equal confidence and grace; I used to think I wouldn’t beg—I used to think I wouldn’t fear death.
But here, in this room, alone, with no assurance of me or Street ever coming out of this alive, I was trapped. I had no solution. No quick thoughts. Our lives were in the hands of a man who was known for his inability to show mercy.
I was wrong. The universe wasn’t on our side, it was preparing a wicked trap for us, and there was no escaping it.
This time, we were all going to die.
CHAPTER THREE
Elio
I settled the cigar between my lips and flicked open the red lighter, allowing the flame to light up the foot before flicking it shut. I sucked in the thick smoke, taking the stick from my mouth while swirling the smoke around my tongue, exhaling slowly and pouring myself a drink.
My lounge door opened and closed, but I didn’t turn to see who walked in because I already knew.
“What were you thinking!”
“You forget yourself sometimes, Casmiro,” I said, putting down the whiskey bottle, picking up my glass, and turning to face him.
“You’re keeping them alive?” He ignored my statement, his eyes burning with anger and disbelief.
“What can I say? Being wicked was getting old,” I told him while taking a sip, allowing the drink to warm me up instead.
“This isn’t funny.”
“I would be laughing if it was.”
He took a step closer to me. “They stole from our family, and you let them live. Why?”
“They stole from me.”
Casmiro frowned in confusion. “What the fuck does that even mean? I don’t—”
“You think with your anger; that is why you don’t understand things. I wonder how you made it this far with me.”
Casmiro glared, taking off his jacket and carelessly throwing it on a couch before walking to the bar area of my home lounge, picking up a glass, and pouring himself a drink. Mygaze kept going to the mess he made with his jacket, but I hid my irritation.
“What’s going on, E?” he asked.
“I see potential in a partnership with them. Besides, they don’t know I’m keeping them alive. I left them with their assumptions. It kills faster than death itself.”
Casmiro shook his head, raising his glass to me. “Only you, Marino. Only you.”
