Page 82 of Fighting With Light

“Three,” Emerson grunts.

He steps back out of the light and I join him. “What’s up?”

“His name is Emelio Bernardo, but there’s nothing here. No passport, no speeding tickets. I think that’s his real name, but I don’t think he lives here.”

I shrug. “So we just need to know where he’s from then. I can do that.”

“Alright, Emilio. We have your name, but I would like you to tell me where you’re from. Someone with lots of money got you here clean like this, so start talking.”

He lifts his head as silent tears pour over his cheekbones. “Go to hell,” he grits through his teeth.

“No, I’m good right here with you. So where are you from?” I ask, drawing the serrated knife over his fingers.

“Why?” Emilio asks.

“Oh, so now you’re asking the questions?”

He lifts a shoulder on his other arm. It seems like he grew a pair since I stabbed the knife in his hand. Interesting.

“Fine, one for one. I’m asking because I would like to know why you came all the way here to point a gun at my brother and not expect to have your face beaten in or a bullet enter your head.”

“My boss sent me,” he grits out. His fingers twitch a little, splayed over the arm of the chair with the knife in it. Blood is pooling on the top of his hand and starting to run little red rivers over the top.

“Who is your boss?” I ask him.

“Who is yours?” he asks.

I tilt my head. “Why does it matter? It’s not like you’ll be able to tell anyone that information.”

He shrugs and winces. “I don’t know. Call it curiosity.”

“Fine, I don’t have a boss. Your turn!” I say brightly.

“A boss in Portugal talked to mine, and they sent me. I don’t know why. I was just given the target.”

“So you’re not from Portugal. That leaves a lot more questions for me, and I don’t think you’re going to enjoy answering them.”

He grunts as I slide the knife out of his hand, and slice through the tip of his finger. The knife is so sharp it’s almost like cutting butter. “You’re running out of fingers, which means you’re running out of time,” I sing-song.

“My boss is Tommy Cameron,” he says with defeat coating his voice. I pull the knife away and he takes astruggled, deep breath.

“As in Tommy Cameron of the British Mafia?” Emerson asks. Emilio nods. Huh, this just keeps getting better.

“Why? We have no business with him or someone in Portugal?” Emerson asks.

***

As much as I would like to think doing those things hasn’t changed me, it has. I’ve done everything from threatening to cut out organs to, well…cutting them out. The dirty work doesn’t bother me. I’m okay with spilling blood to get answers to protect my family. I choose to rip back control for us with my bloody hands, but I don’t know that it will ever end. If that’s the case, who will I become? Certainly not someone worthy of Aelia.

“Liam?” Aelia bumps my shoulder. “Hey, are you alright?”

I look back at Aelia and realize this has been a long, drawn-out game. We just didn’t have enough of the pieces to create the picture. “Do you know Tommy Cameron?” I ask her.

She frowns and tilts her head. “He’s that asshole in England. I don’t like him, but my dad has done a few things with him, I think. But it’s not a normal occurrence to my knowledge. Why?”

“A few months ago, before I came to Bali, a man pulled a gun on my brother.”

Her eyes widen.