Page 53 of Lethal Vengeance

“He’s not looking at you, but at me,” I whisper, trying to assure her.

Stalking forward, Armando grabs my arm and shoves me toward a guard. “I explicitly said ‘no talking.’ Take her to the cells.”

“It’s always good to deal with rebellions quickly,” the woman says approvingly.

Bald man nods emphatically, agreeing with her.

Armando preens under their attention, smoothing his suit and hair a couple of times before he continues with his tour.

The guard squeezes my arm as he drags me out the door and to the annex.

I completely ignore him and the pain he’s inflicting. He’s not worth an ounce of effort. We pass Raider’s cell to get to the adjoining one, and the guard slams me against the bars, holding me there with one hand in the middle of my back.

With little expression, Raider watches the guard’s actions.

When the guard doesn’t find the key, he calls out, until another guard comes running.

“Where the hell is the key?” he snarls at the younger man.

The new guard blanches and stutters out some explanation of being new.

Cursing floods the air. “Do you have any keys?”

He shakily points to Raider’s cell. “I have a key to his.”

The guard holding me grimaces. “Fine. Open it.” When the door opens, he shoves me into Raider’s waiting arms.

Corded muscles lock around me.

Raider waits until the guards are gone, then spins me around to face him. “Still angry with me?” His mouth twitches while he waits for me to answer.

I narrow my eyes. “That depends on how entertaining you can be. We’re going to be spending a lot of time together, and I’m pissy when I’m bored.”

His finger trails softly along the red area on my arm. “Hmm. I don’t like it when someone hurts you. It pisses me off.” His eyes flicker between cold and warm. “Entertaining, huh? I’m not much of a storyteller, but I’ll swap my stories for yours.” He stares at me intently.

This might be worth the pain coming later. “Deal.”

I slide around him to sit down on the cot, then scoot backward until my back hits the wall. “Tell me about your first fight.”

Moving slowly, he follows my lead until we’re sitting side by side. A small smile plays with the corners of his full lips. “It’s certainly memorable. There was a playground near my house where I’d go after school and swing. My favorite thing to do was to pump my legs until it reached the highest point and jump off. It was thrilling.” He chuckles.

Strong fingers tap against each other while he recounts the story. “One day, an arrogant boy, a couple of years older than me, got out of the backseat of a car, the type we rarely saw in our neighborhood. He stood there in his expensive clothes, watching me swing for at least thirty minutes. The longer he stood there, the angrier he became, until he just exploded. He stalked over to the swings, and when I jumped off, he threw his arm back and punched me.”

He rubs his nose in memory. “Stunned, I lay on the ground looking up at him until he yelled at me to get up. When I did, I tackled him. We exchanged hits equally until his driver came over and separated us. He handed the boy a phone, and he stood there with it pressed to his ear for a couple of minutes. After hanging up, he walked away, a sneer on his face.”

Fascinated by both the story and his amused tone, I can’t help but ask for more. “Did he ever say anything to you?”

“Not that time, or all the other times that followed. Every week, he showed up at the park to fight. After the call, he would leave,” he reveals to my astonishment.

“How long did this go on?”

“For almost a year.”

“What happened then?” I murmur.

“Our father decided to show up in person to end the fights,” he returns with a flash of anger. “When he arrived that day, Paulo watched his every move. When he saw how our father completely ignored me, it soothed the wound festering inside him. It was two years before I saw my brother again.”

These memories must have taken place almost thirty years ago, and yet the hurt is still prevalent. I slide my hand into his.