Page 27

Glancing over my shoulder, I found his eyes were glued to me. I tilted my head and smiled, ignoring his question—it always made them squirm when I did.

“How do you like my office? Designed it myself.” I pointed to a spot below where he was sitting. “The drain makes it so much easier to rinse down the blood.” I turned back to my cabinet, continuing to speak. “All I have to do is slather the room in bleach and hose it down.”

When I faced him again, his face had turned white. He hadn’t considered that I might kill him or torture him. The reality of his situation started setting in, and he attempted to thrash in his seat. A smile split across my face watching him struggle because I knew he wouldn’t be able to free himself. I’d watched too many hostages break their chairs and escape, so I’d developed my method.

Seated, with their ankles shackled to the metal chair and arms strung up above their head. I was sure someone, at some point, could find a way out of this, but I didn’t make a habit of leaving them alone long enough to figure one out. Most of the men who found themselves here were pussies who didn’t even try to escape. They would prey on the weak and then whimper when I held them accountable.

“Where the fuck is Mario? I asked for the person in charge, not some bitch playing badass,” he yelled out, but the shake in his voice revealed his fear.

Gunner landed a right hook before gripping the man’s wiry beard and wrenching his head back around.

“Watch your fucking tone.” Gunner shook his head in disgust. “You asked for the person in charge, and here she is, gracing you with her presence, and your fucking sorry soul is going to be disrespectful?” he asked incredulously.

The man’s eyes widened when he took in Gunner’s cut. None of the reapers had noticed he was a member of Skeletons of Society, but this one sure as shit noticed now. I moved up beside Gunner and placed a hand on his arm in an attempt to calm his rage and the rapid beating of my heart at his response. I couldn’t afford to get distracted.

“What is it you wanted to discuss…” I looked down at his cut where it had his club name and position stitched—he was also a sergeant at arms, interesting. “Spinner?”

Blood was freely flowing down from his nose, and his eye was already beginning to swell. Instead of an answer, bloody spit landed at my feet. He had learned his lesson about calling me a bitch in front of Gunner. I rolled my eyes at his childish antics. Men always wanted to test me and see if the fact that I was a woman was some game the cartel was playing.

It had been in the beginning.

Part of me had always thought that Mario included me in those first torture sessions to see if I would break. If the emotional splinters I possessed could be wedged down even deeper. Maybe he thought he could fix me if I fell apart, or maybe he knew that this vigilante justice would make me feel like I was atoning.

But the problem with atoning for sins with sins is you can never break the cycle.

“I asked a question, Spinner. Since you don’t seem to know anything about me, I’ll give you some helpful hints on how I work.” I circled him as I spoke, watching him squirm under my cold gaze. Years ago, I learned that people got nervous when they couldn’t keep you in their line of sight.

“I ask a question, you answer. And I only ask once,” I whispered in his ear.

The stench of his fear now overpowered the faint scent of cleaner. I smiled, knowing Spinner realized that I was the predator and he was the prey. After a few more seconds of silence, he decided his best chance at getting out of Los Muertos’s territory alive was to cooperate.

His voice was rushed and pleading. “I was just here to talk to Mario. I thought he would be here, and I just needed to sort some things out. I swear. “

My brows furrowed at his words. Moving back around to the front, I watched his face for any tells.

“Did Mario know you were coming?” I asked, pissed that confusion was evident in my voice because Spinner picked up on it and immediately shut down.

Sneering, he leaned as far forward as possible with his wrists attached to the ceiling.

“Who the fuck are you to ask questions like that? I wanna talk to someone who makes decisions.” Spinner angled himself to point toward Gunner with his chin before continuing.

“For all I fucking know, this is just the cock you hop that pretty pussy on. In fact, this scum probably pays you for that pussy. How many other brothers do you fuck?” His voice was laced with venom now. “No, bitch, you don’t have a fucking say at Los Muertos. You’re just here fucking with me.” His eyes cut to the two-way mirror, and he yelled at it as if someone was watching. “Mario, I want to talk to you.”

Gunner was practically vibrating with rage next to me. I had to hold him back with a hand on his chest while this asshole was spewing his conspiracy theories about what was going on. A woman in this world got used to being accused of whoring herself out.

Hey, more power to the beautiful bitches who brought men to their knees and then made the assholes pay to worship them. I ran a fucking strip club; obviously, I was very pro-sex worker. But unfortunately for Spinner, that wasn’t the type of work I did for Los Muertos.

Before he knew what was happening, I closed the distance and put a bullet through his kneecap—shattering it and blowing out half his calf. Spinner’s yells of agony reverberated off the tile walls.

My voice came out calm and unfazed. “Hear it’s tough to ride with a shattered knee. Sometimes, the doctors can’t ever restore mobility. Too much to try to reconstruct, even for skilled surgeons. In the worst cases, they have to amputate.” I tilted my head in a way I knew made me look deranged. “Do the Reapers take their men to hospitals now? Or do you guys still use a club doctor?” The malice was evident in my tone.

Spinner whipped his head back and forth in torment, on the edge of unconsciousness. I knew he wasn’t registering anything I was saying. But I wasn’t saying it for his benefit. I was saying it for his two club brothers who were watching a feed of what was happening from their interrogation rooms.

My fingers dug into his jaw.

“Escúchame pendejo, consider this your official warning that Tucson is Los Muertos’s and Skeletons of Society’s territory, and you are not welcome. And tell your president to do some research next time because La Brujita de Los Muertos doesn’t appreciate the disrespect, and I’ll start dropping off bodies at his doorstep if he pisses me off further. ¿Entendes?”

His eyes widened at the mention of my street name, confirming that these assholes must all be new.