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Pace moves lightning fast, pressing the red-hot metal against his bicep. Bruce’s body seizes, a gnashed scream tearing from his throat. Lex works just as fast, firing up his phone’s camera to catch Bruce thrashing, fingers curling around the arm of the chair.

“Fuck!” he shouts once he gains the use of his tongue again. “Goddamn it!”

I give an insincere wince. “It’s not nice to defile other people’s property, Oakfield. That seems to be a lesson that’s hard for you to learn.” I lean forward, elbows on my knees, and grin. “So now that you’re our property, we’re going to give you a taste of your own medicine.”

The torch is still lit, but Pace doesn’t put the small rod back into the flame. No, this time he goes for a bigger one, making sure Bruce catches a flash of the blunt edge.

It’s a skull.

An LDZ skull.

“Wait,” Bruce says as he watches Pace lift the branding rod into the flame. “There has to be something you want! I can–I’ll–there’s information!” The words are urgent, his eyes fixed to the rapidly glowing metal.

“I’m listening,” I say, sounding bored at the prospect.

Pace pulls the iron back and Bruce shoves into the right arm of his chair. “A rumor!” he insists, darting his gaze from me to the glowing metal. “There’s a rumor that there's a stash of explosives left over from Lionel Lucia buried under the water tower.”

“Interesting,” I say, pretending to consider it. I glance at Lex.

“A rumor?” Lex asks.

Bruce nods frantically. “I believe it. Lucia told my old man personally.”

I dip my chin, fixing him with a look. “But you haven’t seen it yourself.”

He shakes his head, a bead of sweat appearing on his temple. “But it’s true–I know it’s true.”

Lex’s lip curls up. “Does your Daddy know you go around telling all his secrets?”

Bruce’s gaze jumps between us, jaw clenched. “He’d want me to do what I need to.”

“Well, your Daddy would tell you that Lucia left bombs all over Forsyth. We’ll be uncovering those fuckers for years.” I lift a shoulder. “Everyone knows that.”

Wordlessly, Pace swings the rod, shoving it right into the meat beneath Bruce’s collarbone.

His next yell is like music. A little high, and then a little low. Sometimes we get guys in here who scream like little bitches. Very occasionally, we get guys who refuse to scream at all. Those ones are both the best and worst. The challenge is always a fun time, but it gets so much messier.

Bruce is a good screamer, though. Gritty. Raw.

He screams like a West Ender.

When Pace pulls the iron back, stony-faced and silent, Bruce is panting through the howls. “What thefuckwas that for?” he roars.

“Being a useless prick!” I say, nodding at Pace, who gets a larger branding iron–this one with the imprint of a crown. Bruce’s breath comes in short bursts, and I stand to lever myself over him, hands gripping the arms of the chair. “The West End. Give us something worthwhile about the Bruins.”

He gives a mangled laugh. “Don’t waste your time. That whole group is full of deranged, psychotic, filthy gutter rats. They’re traitors—bringing in that bitch from North Side—letting her pussy-whip the three of them into letting her take control.”

“You sound jealous,” Lex says, still recording, even though we’ll definitely be cutting this part out when we send it to Payne.

Smirking, I say, “Yeah, I heard Bruin came back and stole your spot.”

“I’m not fucking jealous.” Even though his face is bloodless as he watches Pace heat the iron, he still lifts his chin defiantly. “And he didn’t steal my spot. You think I want to get tied down to fucking one woman for the rest of my life? Wasting my time managing a bunch of half-wit gun runners?” He shakes his head. “No fucking way. My father is on the board of the bank, the university, the hospital, and every other major player in town. Why would I want to give up the power of gliding between lines to rule over one little section?”

Lex slides his amber gaze to me. “Sounds like he’s protesting a bit much, eh?”

“A little bit.”

“Still,” Pace approaches him, “you haven’t given us one damn reason to keep you around.”