Page 15 of No Words

COLE

Two million dollars. That’s what Alessio Borsellini is offering for Molly’s head.

I’ve seen men kill for far less, hell, I’ve done it myself.

But it’s not the number that pisses me off.

It’s the fact anyone thinks she’s an easy target.

I stare at the encrypted message on my laptop screen, my jaw clenching as I read the timestamp. Six hours ago.

‘Fuck.’ The word comes out harsh in the cabin’s silence. Six hours means they’re close. Twenty-four hours, maybe less, before they close in.

I slam the laptop shut. Hard. Not because it’ll help, but because breaking something I can replace is easier than admitting I can’t control every angle.

Pushing back from the desk, I move to the window.

The tree line looks calm, undisturbed. But they’re coming.

I can sense them with the same instinct that kept me alive through three tours and five years undercover.

Alive! That’s what the bounty specifies.

They don’t want Molly dead. Which means she’s worth more to them alive.

That’s not the math I like anyone else doing.

They want what’s in her head. Every detail of their operation, every piece of evidence she could testify to.

Keeping her alive isn’t the same as keeping her safe.

The shower is still on upstairs. Molly, unaware that our borrowed time just ran out. I can hear the water running, a mundane sound that seems surreal against the countdown that’s just begun in my head. One day to prepare, to decide: run or fight.

I grab my sat-phone. Jackson picks up on the third ring.

“Hey man, we’re blown. Borsellini is too close. I need backup ready to move.”

A pause. “Timeline?”

“Twenty-four hours, give or take.” I hate clocks. They make men rush, and rushing leaves bodies. “Borsellini’s offering two mil for her alive. Prices turn people stupid. I’ve killed for less, which is exactly why I’m not underestimating anyone now.”

Another pause. “That’s quite the price tag.”

“She’s worth it. Her testimony could bring down their entire operation.”

“I’ll contact Killian. Have a team ready in a couple of hours. Send me coordinates?”

I give him our location, then add, “Don’t approach until I give the signal. They might have scouts already.”

“Understood. Fight or flight?”

I glance toward the bathroom door, thinking of Molly. How far she’s come in the short time we’ve been here. How she trusts me now, depends on me.

“Fight, I’m tired of running.”

“Copy that. Standing by.”

I end the call and set the phone down, my hands steady out of habit, not calm. Control is a posture you hold until the room cooperates. The shower shuts off upstairs. I have maybe three minutes to figure out how to tell the woman I’m supposed to protect that I need to break her.

Molly appears on cue, wrapped in a towel, water droplets still glistening on her shoulders. And for half a second the mission blurs. That’s the danger with honest feeling, it asks questions I don’t have the bandwidth to answer. She takes one look at my face and freezes.

“What’s wrong?”

Her voice, trusting and soft, does something to my chest. What I’m about to ask of her goes against every protective instinct I have. I don’t sugarcoat it.

“They’ve found us. Not exactly, but they’re close. Borsellini’s offering two million for you. Alive.” Her face pales, but she doesn’t panic. Good girl.

“How long do we have?”

“Eighteen hours, maybe less. I’ve called for backup.” She nods, processing.

“We need to talk about security,” I say, all business now. “Borsellini’s interrogation team specializes in breaking people like you.”

“What do they want?”

“Your case files and information about our network. Safe house locations, extraction routes.” I meet her eyes. “If you break, dozens of people die.”

She processes this like she’s building a case. They don’t just want her testimony; they want to dismantle the entire protection network. Classic organized crime strategy: eliminate the infrastructure, not just the immediate threat.

“So what are you saying?”

“We need to find out how much you can endure. Now.”

“You think I’d talk?” A flash of indignation crosses her face.

“Everyone talks, Molly.” I step closer. “The question is how long you can hold out.”

She swallows hard. “How do we prepare for that?”

“I need to know your limits. How you respond when someone tries to break you.” I move closer, studying her face, keeping my voice clinical despite the heat building inside me.

“There are two types of interrogation. Pain...” I tuck a stray piece of hair behind her ear.

“And pleasure. Pleasure breaks you faster because it slips past your defenses.”

Her pupils widen, lips parting slightly as she realizes what I’m offering. She wets her lips before speaking.

“You want to interrogate me?” Her voice has dropped to a whisper, thick with anticipation.

“I want to prepare you.” My hand cups her jaw, tracing her lower lip with my thumb, feeling its softness, the slight tremble that betrays her desire.

My other hand settles at the small of her back, pulling her closer.

“But I won’t lie, I’ve been thinking about having you at my mercy since the day we met.

Watching you, learning your weaknesses, imagining the sounds you’d make when you finally surrender. ”

Her breath catches, and I feel it against my thumb. The towel has loosened slightly, revealing the curve of her collarbone, beads of water still clinging to her skin. “When do we start?” The question is both surrender and challenge.

“Now.” I drop my hand, deliberately stepping back to break the spell, letting cold air rush between us. “Get dressed. Something easy to remove. Meet me in the bedroom in five minutes.”

She doesn’t argue, just turns and heads to her room.

I watch her go, admiring the sway of her hips beneath the towel, the graceful curve of her spine.

The predator in me savors this moment, the last seconds before I completely ruin her.

I allow myself a small smile before moving to prepare what we’ll need.

When Molly enters the bedroom, I’ve transformed the space.

Curtains drawn, shadows pooling in the corners, lamplight casting everything in amber.

The items on the bed tell their own story.

Rope. Blindfold, everything I need for what comes next.

She pauses in the doorway, taking it all in.

She’s dressed as instructed: tank top, leggings, no shoes.

Her hair is still damp, pulled back in a loose ponytail.

“You came prepared.” Her eyes fix on the restraints.

“This isn’t just about surrender anymore,” I tell her, my voice dropping to its most serious register. “If Borsellini’s team takes you, they’ll use every method to destroy you, pain, pleasure, drugs. The works.”

“The information in your head could destroy Borsellini’s entire network. If you break under interrogation, twenty-three people currently under our protection will be dead within forty-eight hours.”

Her breathing quickens, but her eyes remain steady. “So teach me not to break.”

“I’ll push you past every limit you think you have,” I warn her. “Everything they’ll use, but controlled. Safe.”

She nods once, decisively. “Do it.”

“I like to be thorough.” I stalk toward her. “Safe word is ‘courthouse.’ Use it if things get too intense, and everything stops immediately. Understood?”

She nods. “Courthouse.”

“Good girl.” I circle behind her, close enough that she can feel my breath on her neck. “Interrogation isn’t about the questions. It’s about domination. The interrogator controls everything, your environment, your senses, your comfort.” I brush her hair aside, exposing her neck. “Your pleasure.”

She shivers. I continue circling until I’m facing her again.

“Hands in front of you.”

She complies, and I bind her wrists, rough rope scratching against smooth skin, snug but not tight enough to cut off circulation. Next comes the blindfold, plunging her into darkness.

“When they take your sight, you focus on other senses. Sound. Touch. Scent.” I inhale deeply at her neck. “You smell like fear. It’s intoxicating.”

I guide her backward until her legs hit the edge of the bed, then ease her down onto it. Her chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths.

“The key to resisting interrogation is finding an anchor,” I continue, my voice deliberately calm as I secure her bound wrists to the headboard. “Something to focus on, to ground yourself.”

My hands skim down her sides, feeling her tremble beneath my touch. “Focus on me, Molly. No matter what happens, focus on me.”

I reach for the knife I’ve set on the bedside table, letting her hear the metallic slide as I unsheathe it. “Sometimes, they’ll use fear before pleasure,” I trail the flat of the blade along her arm, careful not to cut her. “The anticipation of pain can be as effective as pain itself.”

I slip the blade under the hem of her tank top. Slicing upward carefully, the fabric tearing apart under the sharp blade. “They won’t care about preserving your modesty or your clothing.” I cut through the rest of her top, reducing it to scraps that I pull away from her body.

I set the knife aside and hook my fingers into her waistband. “Lift your hips.” When she complies, I slide them down her legs in one smooth motion. “They’ll expose you, make you vulnerable, remind you they control everything.”

I keep my voice steady, professional; the facade cracking bit by bit.

It’s just a training exercise, I tell myself; the words ring hollow even in my head.

But my hands betray me, lingering longer than necessary.

That’s what this is supposed to be, and I know she can hear the roughness creeping into my tone.

“The most effective interrogators don’t rush,” I trace patterns on her now-bare skin. “They build gradually. Create anticipation. Heighten sensitivity.” She’s already arching into my touch before I’ve barely begun.