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I, however, never settle for being competent.
Which means that when it comes to hand-to-hand combat?
I am fucking exceptional.
Within seconds I have my attacker in a headlock, and he's writhing underneath me. I flex my bicep that's pulled around his neck, and he gasps, panting, as he tries to breathe.
"Who the fuck are you?" I snarl.
Clearly, he's not Interpol.
The man curses in Russian, and I tighten. "Who. The fuck. Sent you," I growl.
"Stop! Police!"
Fucking hell.
I don't want this asshole to get away. I bear down, hoping he'll pass out, when I hear a familiar whine behind me.
My brain has two seconds to form one word... Taser.
Then, the electricity hits me, and everything goes still.
Trussed like a fucking pig, I glower at the set of agents who took me in.
I'm sitting in one of the Interpol interrogation rooms, my hands bound in front of me at the wrists. I'm glaring up at the agents, who are doing their best to whisper in the corner.
Fucking cops.
A radio crackles slightly, and one of them lifts it. I hear my name, and they both look at me.
I dare them to fucking touch me. I fucking dare...
"Up, De Luca," one of them sneers. "You're fucking lucky you haven't been booked yet."
I resist the urge to tell them that Interpol isn't concerned with petty assault, but I let them hustle me into another interrogation room.
Once inside, I fix my face, my features assuming a mask...
Then, I see who else is there.
"Roisin," I breathe.
I can't help it.
She's sitting at the interrogation table, in the position ofsomeone being interrogated. Her eyes are red-rimmed, like she's about to cry, and her pale skin is nearly bloodless.
My first instinct is concern.
My next?
Rage.
"What the fuck did they do to you?" I snarl.
Roisin pales further. "Marco..."
"Sit, De Luca," another voice barks.