Page 52 of Ruthless

Semantics, and we both know it. I clamber back to my feet and shoot Luca a glare before crossing my arms indignantly. As soon as my eyes lock with Dante, my lungs shut down.

Dante’s anger usually runs hot, but his current fury is icy and sharp. More knife than raging volcano, and I wrap my arms around myself as my irritation shifts to dread.

The wide-eyed panic the cameras caught on Dante’s face has vanished. Maybe that emotion was a product of my overactive imagination, because as he stalks toward me, I see only the promise of pain. “Perfect timing. Luca here just brought in a new lead for me to play with.”

I shake my head. “What does that have to do with me?”

“Didn’t you say you wanted to help?” In one swift motion, he captures my throat in his hand. “Well, here’s your chance. Let’s see how much you can take.”

Chapter 19

Dante

I don’t know his name.

That’s part of the fun. When you’re twisting, squeezing, and breaking, not knowing their names dehumanizes them. Chained to a chair that’s bolted into the ground, my new toy has dark blue eyes and light brown hair. A little over six feet tall, he carries his two-hundred-pound frame well. He’s barely older than me, and apart from his stubbornness, unremarkable in every way.

He’s the type of person you see on the street and forget about instantly. Like a chameleon, he could blend in anywhere. Even if I knew his name, it wouldn’t matter. In the interrogation room, the victims only exist at my discretion.

Today, the man before me is raw meat.

With deliberate care, I roll up my sleeves. Too many people confuse torture with mindless violence. Fear doesn't drive results…the decimation of hope does. I’m effective at what I do because I understand what the loss of hope feels like.

After selecting a pair of pliers, I grab the chameleon’s hand. When he tries to jerk away, I drive my head into his nose, relishing the crack of cartilage and the blood that streams intomy hair. I love the coppery smell and the wetness of someone else’s life force on my skin.

“I’ll give you a chance to earn a painless death. If you tell me the truth, this ends quickly.”

From the corner of the room, Sara’s breathing becomes ragged, but I won’t allow her horror to impair my ability to work.

A ridiculous notion. This is who I am now, a monster partially created by her own actions. If anyone deserves to see me at my worst, it’s her.

The defiant chameleon sneers up at me. “I don’t know shit.”

My tongue runs along my bottom lip. “Wonderful. I was hoping for a chance to play.”

Gripping the pliers, I get to work. The first fingernail’s always the hardest, especially if you lack traction or use cheap tools. I start with his thumb and let the fun begin.

Prisoners usually fall into two camps: those who believe remaining quiet serves as some sort of win and those who scream. In reality, silence only heightens the agony, whereas vocalization can help distract from the pain.

The chameleon is a screamer. His shriek echoes around us, and in the periphery, I spy Sara cringing. “Tell me where he is.”

The man gasps. “Fuck you.”

“So original.”

Time slips by as I remove more nails, sweat dampening my skin from the effort.

“Ready to talk?”

At this point, since he refuses to answer, the questions are perfunctory. He bleeds and whimpers plenty, though.

Iron clacks against iron as Sara yanks at her chains. “Dante, stop this. Please.”

The captive’s eyes rake over her body, and the last of my control snaps like shattering glass.

“Don’t look at her,” I growl.

With one hand, I pry his lips apart and capture a molar between the pliers. “Maybe your memory will kick in after I pluck out a few of these bad boys. What do you think?” I grin because smiling is a fundamental human trait. One that apparently persists even after someone strips your humanity away. “Want to bet on it?”