Page 7

Then I set the wrench down and switch tools again, reaching for the needle-nose pliers. His reaction is immediate—his whole body jerks, his hands twitching against the ropes. That tiny flinch pisses me off. He’s fucking weak.

The pliers clink loudlyas I test their grip a few times. His eyes are locked on them now. I can see the panic in his eyes but the piss stain in his pants tells me he’s fucking afraid. The fucker pissed his pants three times since we’ve been down here.

Leaning close, I can feel his ragged breath against my face. “You know why you’re here?” I ask.

Chris doesn’t say anything, he just stares back at me with a blank look, he actually thinks he can play this game with me. I shove the pliers into his mouth, forcing his jaw open with zero fucks for how rough I am.

His teeth clack against the metal, trying to hold his mouth shut, but I don’t stop.

“Last fucking chance. Speak.”

Nothing but fucking crickets. And his silence seals his fate. I tighten my grip and pull hard. The room fills with the sickening scrape of metal against enamel, that sounds like nails on a chalkboard.

His muffled grunts turn into garbled, choked cries, his body jerking hard against the chair. Blood spills over his lips, coating his chin a deep red.

But the stupid bastard still tries to hold it in. That’s fine, everyone breaks. It’s just a matter of how much pressure it takes.

I drop the first tooth onto the floor. It hits the concrete with a soft ping. Then I go for another. Then another. After five, he’s still clinging to whatever loyalty or stupidity is keeping his mouth shut.

That’s when I grab the bottle of hydrochloric acid from the table, slowly unscrewing the cap directly in front of Chris’s face.

The sharp, acrid smell burns my nostrils, but I don’t react. Instead, I tip the bottle just enough to let the liquid drip onto his thigh.

The liquid hisses first, then sizzles from the fabric of his pants, melting away, exposing raw, blistering skin beneath. The scent of burning flesh overpowers the smell of mold and hydrochloric acid. Chris stiffens, his jaw locking, and a strangled noise catches in his throat. He won’t scream. Not yet. But his body is breaking down, his muscles shake violently, and his fingers start to twitch.

I raise a brow. “Tough guy, huh?”

The blood running down his chin is thick, pooling at his collar. His face goes pale, his lips pressed so tight they almost disappear, but I can hear the wet, gurgling sound in his throat.

Still, no words.

I shake my head and pour a little more, trailing it up his torso. He gasps, and his body jolts, but he bites back the scream.

If I weren’t going to kill him, I might even respect his resilience. But admiration won’t save him. I tilt my head, watching as the acid eats through his skin, the raw flesh bubbling beneath it. His body sinks deeper into the chair like he’s trying to escape the pain, but there’s no escaping this.

Chris is still holding out, stubborn as ever, he thinks he has a choice in how this ends, because burning his fucking flesh and pulling out his teeth wasn’t bad enough. And yet, he’s still trying to be a tough guy. Admirable. Stupid as fuck, but admirable.

Kota leans against the wall, arms crossed, with an amused smirk tugging at his lips. “This is why I stick to shooting people. Quick, easy, minimal cleanup.”

I crack my knuckles, glancing at Kota just as my other men start filling the room.

I wipe the blood off my hands with the rag one of my men hand me, my gaze fixed on Chris. “Where’s the fun in that?” I murmur, tossing the rag on the ground. “Bullets are forgettable. Pain lingers.” Time to step it up.

Kota chuckles, shaking his head. “And let me guess,” he muses, strolling toward the cabinet. “Dentist time’sover, and now you wanna play orthopedic surgeon?” He pulls out a wooden mallet, testing the weight in his hand.

I roll my shoulders. “Nah, I think it’s time for something a little more medieval.”

He exhales dramatically, shaking his head with a grin. “I almost forgot about that thing.” He cocks a brow, glancing at me. “You always had a weird thing about pain, man. You sure you don’t wanna see someone about that?”

“Why?” I smirk, stepping back so my men can move in to untie Chris from the chair. “Torture’s therapeutic enough.”

Kota snorts but doesn’t argue. We share a knowing grin, watching my men drag Chris toward my prized possession—the Judas Cradle.

The cradle itself isn’t much to look at, but it makes my balls tingle. It’s a heavy steel frame with a sharp, pyramidal point sticking up from the center. Simple, but fucking effective. There’s no fast death with this one. No quick, merciful way out. The pain is slow, unrelenting, inch by agonizing inch.

Chris thrashes as my men strap him down, but it’s useless. He’s exactly where I want him. Trapped, helpless, forced to feel every second of what’s coming.

“Five days,” I say, watching them strap his arms behind his back. “That’s the longest anyone’s lasted on this thing.”