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So did the man working the camera.

Cigar smoke drifted in from the corridor a second before Ciro appeared.

There was the cartel king.

He walked in with a cigar between his fingers and the easy arrogance of a man who believed everything inside these walls belonged to him.

Isabeast followed.

She was dressed in fitted black trousers and a crisp white blouse. Her dark hair was sleek again, and her makeup polished.

The New York attorney had returned—the same woman who’d walked into Xyst.

Mateo came in directly behind her in dark clothes, his pistol riding at his hip.

Ciro made it two steps into the dungeon before stopping.

His gaze moved over me slowly.

They’d cleaned off most of the blood, but I still looked like a man who’d been beaten, shocked, and barely given water for two days.

Ciro looked at Isabeast.

“I told you he was to be presentable.”

“He is.”

Ciro turned back toward me.

I almost laughed.

If this was her definition of presentable, I’d hate to see what she considered rough treatment.

“He looks like hell.”

“He’s alive.”

“That wasn’t the order.”

Her chin lifted. “His face is fine.”

“And can he walk?”

“He could yesterday.”

Ciro’s eyes snapped back to her.

“Yesterday?”

She didn’t answer.

He stepped closer to me.

“I need Volkov to see exactly what I intend him to see. Not proof that you indulged yourself before the negotiation even started.”

Ciro didn’t give a damn that she’d tortured me. He cared that Nik and Lucian might see a man who couldn’t keep his own people in line. The damage had to look deliberate, exactly enough to make the threat clear.

Isabeast crossed her arms.