Yeah. The car pulls into the fucking drive, the garage door raising to meet it.
Miko’s gaze cuts to mine, face stricken. “Are you seeing this?”
I clench my fingers around his phone, my knuckles aching in protest. “Yes. I fucking see it.”
The deceit. The betrayal.
I embrace the violence bleeding into my marrow. The merciless call for vengeance no longer resisted, but honed, crafted, inherited.
I’m about to tear the fucking world apart.
Chapter
Thirty
ISLA
“Tellme what I want to know.” My interrogator wears the usual dark clothes and balaclava, one gloved hand wrapped around the handle of a brown paper bag.
But this time, he’s not perched on the chair, comfortable in his intimidation. Instead, he stands a few feet from my cell, looming over my seated position on the concrete floor, his modulated voice somehow louder than usual. Meaner.
“I’ve told you everything,” I whisper, defeated.
I’ve told him nothing and I’m not sure how much longer I can hold out. I want to go home. To see Raffael. To hug Quinn. To work things out with my father.
“This is your last chance,” he warns. “I’m running out of patience.”
My pulse stutters. I’m not sure if it’s in fear or hope.
Sure, the warning should have me trembling, but the psychological fuckery of being stuck in a cage with the same conversation playing on a loop likeGroundhog Daymakes any change in script seem like a blessing worth celebrating.
“Tell me aboutCavallo,” he demands, his modulated voice harsh.
My heart seizes.
I’ve tried not to fixate on Raffael. Not to let the idea of him become my lifeline. But with all this—the cage, the questions, the chemical burns on arrival—it’s hard not to obsess over the memory of us together to keep me hopeful.
“What about him?” I blink up at the man towering over me.
“Tell me what I want to know.”
My chest hollows, the ache of despair returning like a tidal wave.
It’s still the same game, just prefaced differently.
I hang my head and stare at my belongings on the floor beside me, my world whittled down to the toothbrush, comb, can of deodorant, and the few other meager items Quinn placed in my tote.
I probably should’ve been more industrious with my captivity. Made a shiv out of the toothbrush instead of passing the days perfecting my oral hygiene. But on the bright side, if I die, I’ll have teeth polished to a mirror shine.
“Have it your way.” He reaches into his bag and retrieves a bottle of water. “Drink.” He drops it to the floor and kicks it toward the cell bars.
Bile teases the back of my mouth as I focus on the threat, the cap seal broken, the water tampered with.
We’ve done this dance before, too. I didn’t appreciate the choreography.
“Drink the fucking water or we repeat history.” He reaches into the bag again, the paper falling to the floor to reveal a metal canister in his hand, just like the one he used to gas me in the limo.
I lunge to my feet, my adrenaline spiking. “Why?”