Page 91 of Ruthless Scar
“Even though he locked you in a cage? Even though he left you behind?”
“He was trying to protect me. Did it wrong.” The words taste strange in my mouth. Not a defense, exactly. Just truth.
Flavio laughs. Soft. Amused. “And you know this because?”
“Because I saw his face.” A pause. “He looked destroyed.”
“So you’ll die for a man who imprisons you because he looked sad about it?”
“I’ll trust a man who made a terrible choice because he was afraid. There’s a difference.”
Flavio’s smile fades. Ice replaces it.
“He might not come for you. You understand that? His family, his operation, his life. And a hacker he’s known for a few weeks.”
“Then I die knowing I didn’t sell him out.” I don’t waver. “Knowing I didn’t take someone’s trust and turn it into a weapon. Knowing that when it mattered, I chose to be someone my sister could be proud of.”
“Rather than being alive to ask her opinion on the matter?”
“You love him,” Flavio says. Not a question.
I consider the word. Do I love him? I don’t know. I’ve spent years not letting myself love anything except a sister I couldn’t find. But trust. Trust is harder to find than love.
“I trust him,” I say. “That’s more important.”
Flavio stares at me for a long moment. Then he turns toward the door.
“I’ll give you some time to reconsider. The offer remains until morning.” He pauses at the handle. “After that, I’ll have to find other uses for you. Less pleasant ones.”
The threat hangs in the air. I hold steady.
“He’ll come before morning.”
Flavio smiles. Cold. Sharp. “We’ll see.”
The door closes behind him. The lock engages with a heavy click.
The fluorescent light hums. The concrete doesn’t answer. Somewhere in the building, someone screams.
My eyes shut.
He’ll come.
He has to.
26
LORENZO
It’s not enough.
The war room is a hive of controlled chaos. Marco at the screens, triangulating signals, running traces, muttering to himself as he works. Nico on the phone in the corner, speaking Russian to someone I don’t ask about. Dante pacing behind Marco, coordinating, directing, holding everything together. And me. Moving. Calling. Threatening.
“Marchetti. You owe me for the docks.” My voice is flat. Dead. “Find out where Flavio’s been moving product through and you live to see your grandchildren.” The voice on the other end stammers something about time. “You have an hour.” I hang up. Dial the next number.
“Russo. I know you have contacts in the Benedetti supply chain. I need names. Locations. Anything on properties they’ve been using in the last six months.”
“Lorenzo, I can’t just?—”
