It takes all the men to subdue him, with me and The Duke helping to secure him across the entrance once everyone else disembarked. “I want the killing blow,” The Duke says, daring us to argue. As if we would. Her guy, her kill.
“Anyone want a turn? Or are you all happy if I take care of it?”
“Get on with it, Dukemeister!” Nate shouts out. I swear I can see steam coming out of her ears. I need to ask Tessa what the story is behind him always wanting to rile her up. Maybe he has a death wish?
I’ve yet to see The Duke in action when it comes to killing. She’s a private person by nature, and although I respect her immensely, and am glad she has my back, I don’t really know a lot about her.
She’s fast. Like really fucking fast. She moves with a grace that could be used on stage, all long legs and arms as she glides across the narrow platform, removing his ears and tongue, then slashing an X across each eye. It’s finished in mere seconds and my mouth goes dry at her mastery. Blood gushes from the wounds; grunts and gurgled screams tearing from him as he convulses against the restraints. The Duke spins around, raising her leg in the air as she twists, the deadly sharp point of her four-inch stiletto piercing his heart.
Carl heaves out one last desperate breath, then goes still. All of us are subdued now, watching her with awe and admiration. Fucking hell. Rebecca climbs up the stairs, using a Sharpie to writeRetributionacross his forehead, her signature as the Retribution Killer.
A loud yelp breaks the silence, and we all turn to see Nate rubbing his ass, glaring at The Duke. She studiously ignores him, winds her whip back up and replaces it on her shoulder.
Note to self: Never call The DukeDukemeister.
Chapter 9
Dutch
Fifteen Months Ago
It’scolderthanawitch’s tit outside, and I blow on my hands, trying to keep them warm while I stake out the house across the street. Having the car running would be suspicious, so I’m sitting here freezing my ass off as the wind buffers against my car, snowflakes swirling under the glow of the streetlights.
It’s nights like this I wish I liked hot drinks. Coffee and tea are disgusting, and believe it or not, I hate chocolate too. Hot apple cider has never interested me, but at least it smells decent. I could do with having a cup of something to help warm me up.
A man could do that too.
Yes, I know. It’s been a while. The last fucker I took to bed came in under three minutes, leaving me frustrated enough to chase him away with my gun drawn. Next time he might spend a minute or two on foreplay.
I usually try to find hookups at least a couple of times a month, but lately, I’m finding it not as satisfying as it used to be. Either I’m becoming jaded, or men that know what they’re doing are becoming harder to find.
My vote’s on the latter.
A light comes on in the upstairs window, and I reach over to the passenger seat to grab the binoculars. The small stone-clad house has seen better days. The wooden stairs are cracked and sagging, the porch rails covered in chipped paint. Several of the windows are boarded up, their glass having been smashed long ago.
A foreclosure sign, bent in half, swings in the breeze, the screeching metal loud against the snow-dampened night.
A month ago, when Agent Spalding handed me that envelope, it took me only seconds to recognize that some of the victims worked for my father. Since he has thousands working for him, it would be impossible for me to know them all. But my gut tells me if I looked hard enough, I’d find that every one of them worked for him.
Did I inform Agent Spalding of this? Not fucking likely. I’m not the naive eleven-year-old standing in front of the courtroom anymore. Spalding may be friends with my uncle, but that doesn’t mean he’s not on Vincenzo’s payroll.
And anyone causing problems for my father is a friend of mine.
It took me the better part of a month to track him down. Cruz Sandoval. The composite sketch I had been given didn’t do him justice. He’s a six-one, broad-shouldered, muscled man with short brown hair and a close-cropped beard that’s more stubble than anything. His eyes are a light hazel with golden flecks, his jaw strong and sure, his nose a little crooked, as if he broke it at some point in the past. His lips are full, the kind you could nibble on for hours, his arms and legs thick with muscle.
In other words, he looks like the man I would create for myself if I could.
The first time he walked past me, I swear I felt the earth move. I was frozen in place, my eyes locked on him, and it was as if the world held its breath, just for a moment. Then someone else walked past, breaking the spell, and I chided myself for being fanciful.
He’s still a serial killer,I had told myself,even if heiskilling your father’s men.
I’ve been on his tail ever since.
When I’m not following him, I’m busy looking into him. My world has turned into all things Cruz.
Although colleagues might disagree with me, I do have a heart hidden beneath all this metal music, motorcycle grease, and black ripped jeans. And Cruz’s story is enough to pull at anyone’s heartstrings.
I’m sure I don’t have the full story. What I’ve been able to piece together comes from court records and social media posts, and one lone newspaper article.
