Page 73 of Hunted to the Altar

She nodded once. No hesitation. No fear.

And it gutted me.

Ricci was already tied to the chair when we entered the basement.

The smell of cold concrete and blood and sweat filled my lungs.

Lorenzo stood off to the side, arms crossed, face unreadable. Two more of my men lingered near the stairs, their eyes sharp and alert.

Ricci lifted his head when he heard us. His face was bruised, one eye swollen half-shut. Fear rolled off him in waves.

Nina wheeled in silently behind me. I felt her presence like a pulse against my spine.

I stepped forward until I stood directly in front of Ricci.

"You had a seat at my table," I said, my voice low, dangerous. "You broke bread with my family. You touched my wife’s hand."

He flinched. Good. He should.

"I didn’t want to?—"

"You chose to," I interrupted, cutting the air between us. "You chose betrayal. You chose death."

His mouth opened, but no sound came out. Only the wet, panicked breathing of a man who knew the end was near.

I pulled the knife from my belt.

A slow, deliberate movement.

Not for show.

Not for mercy.

Ricci’s eyes widened in horror.

"You have one chance," I said. "Tell me everything. Names. Plans. Every secret you sold."

He started to talk. Stumbling over his words. Begging. Blaming. Crying.

And then he said it.

Nina’s name.

The Picones had asked about her specifically. They had plotted to take her from me. The fire inside me exploded into something violent and feral.

I struck him across the face with the back of my hand. Blood splattered the floor. He whimpered. Behind me, I heard the faint creak of Nina’s wheelchair. I turned my head.

She was watching.

Silent.

But her hands—her small, delicate hands—were clenched so tightly around the armrests that her knuckles shone white.

I turned back to Ricci and drove the knife across his arm.

Not deep.

Not yet.