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“Did he tell you to abuse Daya? Rape her?”

He flounders, his mouth opening and closing as he searches for the right answer. Or rather, the right lie.

Daya’s eyes cling to him as she holds her hand out to me expectantly. I don’t look away from Luke as I grab a knife from the table next to me and hand it to her, knowing what she’s asking for.

She doesn’t waste time. Doesn’t hesitate for a second. She just grips the black handle in a tight fist, the metal glinting off the dining room lights as she rises it above him and plunges it down into his throat. Sharp metal cuts through flesh and bone, silencing his pleas.

Luke’s eyes widen into round discs, staring at his reaper with disbelief. It’s always disbelief. As if they didn’t see it coming. Or maybe, they just can’t accept the fact that they’re actually dying.

Men like this, who have lived their lives so selfishly and with no regard for others’ lives, are always the most desperate to live forever.

But they never understood that’s what makes them so goddamn weak. It’s the people who have no regard for their own life—people like me. We are the ones that are the deadliest.

What’s stopping me from taking people down with me when I die?

Nothing.

Not a goddamn thing.

Chapter 7

The Diamond

“You bring product into my house looking like this?” a woman hisses sharply, drawing my eyes up. I’m standing with my back turned to a dirty full-length mirror, head cocked over my shoulder, and my shirt raised up as I observe the stitches on my back. Massive bruises mottle my skin, turning it into an ugly color.

Clearing my throat, I let my oversized, dingy shirt drop and turn to meet her gaze head-on.

In front of me is a beautiful woman, her face caked in make-up and skin doused in citrus perfume. A tight dress clings to her curves, and a pair of strappy heels give her Amazonian height.

Her outfit is not fit for this weather, but she looks as if she could walk through a blizzard barefoot and not bat an eye. She only appears to be in her mid-thirties, and while she’s beautiful, she looks tired—weathered. Walking alongside the devil will do that to you.

This must be Francesca.

And right now, she’s glaring at me, shooting daggers from her golden-brown eyes.

Shit. Here we go.

Rio shifts uncomfortably but doesn’t respond to her outraged question. And that small action tells me a lot. If you don’t have a valid reason for your mistake, keep your mouth shut. Maybe even if you do, still keep it shut.

Her eyes narrow and trail down my body as she walks towards me, checking me out. Determining how much money I could make her, most likely.

I’m grateful Rio found some clothes from another girl’s room, and that I’m not wearing the hospital gown anymore. I imagine her reaction would be far worse than it is now.

She stands before me, her strong perfume tickling my nose. I keep silent, watching her pinch the dirty, white shirt and lift it up. Her stare sharpens as she spots the ugly bruises coloring my torso. They’re everywhere, and I have a sickening feeling she’s going to make it her mission to find every single one.

She then circles me, a sharp gasp piercing the still air when she spots the two large gashes on my back.

“What did you do to her?” she snarls.

Rio keeps his eyes down on his black boots, specks of dried blood still on them.

“Car accident,” he answers shortly.

“Stupid. This is going to take weeks to heal. When can the stitches come out?”

He finally looks up, his dark brown eyes swirling with hate yet an apologetic expression on his face. It’s manufactured just for Francesca. He’s not fucking sorry at all.

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