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“Seems it,” I grin.

Just then, I hear a door shut, then heavy footsteps. A few seconds later, my pulse quickens as Nero stalks into the kitchen with a grim look on his face. He nods at Dom, then turns and strides over to me. My heart flip-flops in a strange, unexpected way as he takes my hands in his, those green eyes lancing into mine.

“Come with me,” he growls quietly.

25

NERO

“What thefuck?!”

I could have warned her what she’d see before I took her into the basement at Greymoor. But I didn’t.

This is why she screams and jumps behind me when we get to the bottom of the stairs and she sees Leo fucking Debolsky tied to a chair.

Gag in his mouth.

Blood on his face.

Oh, yeah—and his right hand nailed to a board tied to the arm of his chair.

Sometimes you have a problem that isn’t going to seriously hurt you, but is fucking annoying. A splinter, for instance: you’re not going to bleed out. You don’t need a surgeon or stitches. That splinter, though, is apain in the ass.

You can’t stop thinking about it. It’s always just…there. Sometimes, it makes a real nuisance of itself by getting infected. Then you can't ignore it anymore.

Leo is the goddamn splinter in this analogy, if that wasn’t already abundantly clear. And like a splinter, sometimes, you have to force the fucker out.

You have to take matters into your own hands to get rid of the problem.

That's what I did tonight.

Do I feel guilty that I was the one who paid the bartender to spike Leo’s first drink? Or that I was the one who made sure Leo’s subsequent Arnold Palmers, when re-ordered by the cocktail waitress, were made by that same bartender, who I’d slid three hundred bucks to, ensuring they had a little bit more booze in them each time? Until the last one was basically lemon- and tea-flavored vodka? Nope.

I knew the risk with her being there, but I didn’t know he’d push things so far.

ThatI do feel guilty about. But I’m going to expel that guilt tonight, along with Leo’s blood.

It started with me not liking the fact that the object of my affection was also catching the attention of this Russian douchebag. But then that “not liking it” factor began to ratchet up until it turned into something more like “fucking hating” the fact that he kept inserting himself into her life.

I did my homework. I discovered that Vladimir Debolsky is trying to use his new seat on the Aviation Council to forge deals with powerful New York families.

I also discovered that a few years ago Milena found herself out in the Hamptons with this fuck, and he tried to break down her goddamn bedroom door to get his filthy hands on her.

On the one hand…I get it.

On the other? He’s a fucking dead man.

This splinter just tweaked my hand for the last time. And now, it’s going to get removed.

For good.

“What thefuck?!” Milena blurts again from behind me, a horrified expression on her face as she looks at Leo.

Now’s the part where I have to show her why eradicating this motherfucker is the only way forward here.

“Iwasjust going to fuck up his hand and send the motherfucker home with a warning for touching you…”

I nod to his right hand—the one he touched her with: I know, because I made him tell me—nailed to the two-by-four tied to the arm of the chair.