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His voice hardened. “That is not what I asked.”

I let a second pass before answering. “Yes. I kissed him and practically crawled all over him to express my desperation. I had to know how far he would go.”

“And?”

“He stopped me.” I smiled for real this time. “That’s the best part.”

Ciro made a sound of contempt. “Irish honor.”

“Irish weakness.”

“Same thing.”

“Maybe. Either way, it’s a leash we can put on him,” I hummed.

Ciro breathed out slowly, and I knew him well enough to know what he was thinking. Lachlan had handed us the opening himself. A man who wanted to save me could be manipulated. A man who thought he had to protect me could be separated from the pack. A man with rules could be made to take risks.

“You will use it to set a trap,” he ordered dryly. “I want him.”

“Yes.”

“You will let him arrange whatever escape he thinks he can give you. Then you will bring him where I tell you.”

I moved back to the desk and straightened the disheveled papers. “Yes, of course.”

“Buena niña,” he said. “Come to Papi tonight.”

The words held pleasure.

His cold, ugly pleasure.

“I want him conscious when he understands what his brother and Volkov cost me,” Ciro said. “I want him useful. He can give me access to Volkov’s DarkMatter security firm. Genovese’s weaknesses. Every little secret those men think oaths keep safe.”

“He may not talk.”

“They all talk.”

“Lachlan might not be the type to.”

“Then he will learn what silence costs,” Ciro said, inhaling a long drag of what I knew was probably one of his favorite Cuban cigars. “My men at home are patient. They know how to open proud men. Skin, bone, sleep, thirst, shame. Every man has something that breaks his mouth open.”

A small thrill moved through me.

Anticipation of the role I might play.

Lachlan Byrnes had walked into my office with judgment in his eyes and control in every inch of his body. I wanted to see that control stripped from him. I wanted to know what he looked like when he broke in my hands.

I wondered if the man underneath would still be so noble when he was bleeding.

“You’ll kill him when you’re done?” I asked.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“A dead Byrnes is a message,” Ciro said. “A broken Byrnes is leverage.”

I looked at the folder he’d left behind, sitting on my desk.