Page 64 of Promise of Destruction (Destruction & Vengeance Duet #1)

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Declan

Dimitri eyes me warily, his jaw set. He seems to be contemplating how much he actually needs me.

“I don’t make girls disappear. I don’t hurt them.

I never hurt them. I hurt men like you, who parade them around like trophies.

I hurt men like you who think that the world is yours for the taking, that every woman in it is fair play.

I fall asleep to the memories of all the men who screamed until their last breath. ”

Somehow, I don’t doubt that last claim. He suddenly looks like a psychopath, as if he enjoys the solace he finds in his little lullaby.

“I live only to make men like you suffer, Declan Evers, and I will take great joy in every second of your pain if you don’t make yourself useful.”

I almost laugh, but the conviction in his thick voice is hard to miss.

He believes what he’s saying. That makes him a fool, but he’s a fool with a gun, a fool who took Soren away from me. For those reasons alone, I decide to do what I set out to do.

“I have to re-code the software.” I explain, gesturing to the laptop.

“And it’s not as quick as you want it to be.

I will fix this, and then I will find your girl.

” Dimitri nods curtly, but I’m not done.

“But I will need something from you. If you help me, I’ll help you, and then you will disappear from my life, and I will never see you again. ”

“Yes.” He agrees swiftly.

“I’m hurt by your eagerness,” I mock. “The first condition is that nothing happens to her.”

I’m sure he knows her name by now, but it doesn’t matter.

I don’t want to hear her name on his lips—it’s a privilege he doesn’t deserve—and the less I use it, the less he will believe she matters.

My stake in Soren could be purely a property interest, though something tells me he’s smart enough to realize that’s not all I’m concerned about.

“I already told you—” He’s pinching the bridge of his nose, which gives me the smallest bit of satisfaction. I’m glad to know I am exasperating him, though my redundancy is soon to be the least of his problems.

“The second thing—” I cut him off. “Is coffee.”

He blinks, clearly surprised by my demand.

“Well, we are in Costa Rica.” He shrugs. “Neither of your requests will be an issue. Get to work.”

He is turning to go, his hand on the doorknob, when my voice stops him.

“That’s not a fucking request. It’s an order.”

His chuckle tells me he’s none too concerned by my abruptness. He works for murderers, rapists, and sadists. He may not be scared of me because he’s caught in a web of sin, but it’s not smart of him to underestimate me.

I haven’t killed anyone yet because I know this organization I’m wrapped up in is like a fucking hydra. If I cut off one head, two more will grow in its place. I don’t have an exit strategy yet.

But just because I haven’t yet, doesn’t mean I won’t kill anyone who stands in the way of what I want.

**************************

It takes far longer than I care to spend isolating the code that has been corrupted, but I manage to find it before the Russian ever returns with my coffee.

The sequence of characters on the screen is starting to blur before me, but once I pick out the offending code, I feel a second wind start to take hold. It may even be a fifth wind by now—I don’t remember when I slept last.

I used to pull nights like this in college all the time; I didn’t sleep for seventy-two hours while I was writing the code for this software.

I lived for months on espressos that I didn’t even like, whichever energy drinks I could get my hands on, and the manic energy that a person has when they’re consumed by passion.

But I don’t have passion for this project anymore. I want to burn the whole fucking program to the ground—I want to corrupt the code even more than it already is. I want to guarantee that no more lives are ruined because of what I built.

I was too selfish before to do it, and now that I’m in the perfect position to manage it, I can’t possibly go through with it.

Because I’m still selfish.

I’m still not a good man.

I’m still a monster who doesn’t want to lose his shiny new toy.

When I was younger, I was disillusioned enough to believe I was a good person. I was foolish enough to think that the world existed in black and white, that there was good and evil, right and wrong. I was na?ve enough to believe I’d grow up and make all the right choices—I wanted to be a hero .

I know that I am not a hero. I never will be.

The hero is created by the people around them, the choices they make.

I chose darkness— temporary comfort. I chose to lie in bed with the vilest sort of people that exist, and no matter how distant I’ve kept them, they are able to do what they do because of me.

I thought I would be a hero once, but I accepted my fate a long time ago.

I will die a villain.

I’ve made myself a villain in countless people’s stories—people who never even know I’m there.

I am the hand that covers their mouths, the noose that wraps around their necks, the chains that bind them, the eraser that removes their entire identity from existence.

I am also the only one who can write them back into existence, which is exactly what I’m trying to do when the door opens.

I don’t look up from the screen— my eyes are dry, lids heavy with the weight of the last few days. My body is on the verge of shutting down, but my brain isn’t. It spurs me onward, working too fast for my tired fingers to keep up.

If I look away, I may lose the path that’s been emblazoned in my mind. I don’t have time for that.

“I brought your coffee.”

The voice is distinctly feminine, but it’s not Soren. I’m aware every time Soren walks in a room—this woman is here, but Dimitri isn’t. I turn to look at her, unable to stop myself.

A middle-aged woman with dark hair threaded with silver strands stands in the doorway, a thermos of what is presumably my coffee in one hand.

She looks uncomfortable, tired, irritated.

I’d ask who she is, but it’s not a stretch of the imagination to assume she’s the help, although that’s questionable, given that I didn’t ask for a side of attitude with that coffee.

“Where’s Dimitri?” I ask, eyeing her coolly.

“None of your business.” Her voice is firm. “Do you want this or not?”

I raise an eyebrow, amused by the challenge she’s presenting me with. “Doesn’t a maid usually deliver?”

“I’m not a maid.” She sneers. “And I delivered it this far. If you want this coffee, you’d better come get it.”

I chuckle, noting her crossed arms. She looks a bit old to be one of their victims, but she’s not unappealing. Maybe Boudreaux has a thing for older women.

“Are you scared of me…” I venture, watching her face twist in irritation, “or this place?”

The woman sucks in a breath but then releases it as a laugh of her own. She crosses the room in short, quick steps and thrusts the mug into my hand.

“I am not afraid of you. I worked for years for the most despicable people you could ever dream up. Don’t make the mistake of thinking you have any power here.”

Her outburst stuns me to silence, so I take a sip of the coffee. I didn’t specify any additions, and I’m pleased to notice that she hasn’t taken the liberty of playing the bored barista. I don’t like coffee, but I like bastardized coffee even less. I like it black, like the souls of my benefactors.

The liquid is hot, and the blend is strong.

It zings against my tongue, promising relief in the form of caffeine soon to come.

I practically chug half of the liquid and then set it aside before looking back to find her with her arms crossed, waiting for something.

I’m tempted to pull a dollar out of my wallet just to see if this lady is as fierce as her words make her seem, but decide not to bite the hand that feeds me.

I’ll be needing more coffee, and soon.

“Can I help you?”

“You can, actually.” She laughs, but it sounds like she chokes on it. When I flick my eyes up to hers, they’re watery. “You can find her.”

“A novel idea.” I sigh, rolling my eyes and spinning back around to stare at the blinking cursor in front of me. From the corner of my eye, I watch her as she stands there, unmoving.

“I realize that it’s a lot… asking you to come here like this out of the blue. And I realize that you’re something of a private contractor, which means you’re loyal to no one.”

I don’t bother trying to refute that.

She continues, unbothered. “Your loyalty is to whatever makes you the most money, or the decision that will bring you the most satisfaction. I guarantee you if it’s money you want, Remy will give you the most. He will give you everything if you can find her so that he can bring her home safely.”

I have more money than I will ever need, thanks to wise investments made with the money his father bought me with. But I don’t bother to tell her that.

“Do you think I look like a simple man?” It’s a trick question. I’m dressed down so much that I do, in fact, look like a simple man. A simple man in need of a fucking shower, a blow job, and sleep. “Money isn’t what motivates me.”

“Lust, then.” She clears her throat. “I met your little companion. Cute, but it looks like you’ve been a little too hard on her. Dimitri is ensuring that she’s being taken care of as we speak.”

I narrow my eyes on her, unsure if she means for her words to come across as a threat or a reassurance.

If it’s a threat and he’s touching her, I’ll chop off every one of his appendages and use them to beat this woman to death.

But I don’t let my face betray that the thought of another man touching her makes me want to paint the world red with blood.

“There are more where she comes from.” I shrug, holding tight to the illusion that Soren doesn’t mean anything to me.

She doesn’t… at least, she’s not supposed to.

She’s supposed to be my toy, something I take pleasure in destroying and then walk away from without a backward thought.

And yet, the thought of anything happening to her makes my stomach tighten and my heart beat faster. I think I cover it well.

“But I’m curious…” I pause, realizing I’ve never learned her name, “What is it to you? Remington is your boss, his sister is an extension of that, but why do you care enough that you feel emboldened to threaten me to find her?”

Her eyes flicker with realization when she recognizes that she just threw herself under the bus. She turns quickly away, and I think she’s going to leave so I take another pull of my coffee and set my focus on the screen before me again.

“Rhea’s like a daughter to me.” She sighs, and when I look up to grant her my attention, she turns back to face me.

Her hand is pressed over her mouth while she contemplates telling me more.

She drops it to let it rest on her chest, and I honestly can’t tell if she’s having heart palpitations or just trying to emphasize the sincerity of her claim.

“I love that girl, and I love Remy. They are my family, and I will do anything to protect what is left of my family. I’ve lost too much to this dark business. Do you understand me?”

Desperation rolls off of her in waves now that her angry facade has faltered. I realize just how quickly she cycled through multiple stages of grief, and I think she realizes it too, because she clears her throat and straightens her spine.

The pinging of the computer steals my attention, and I look back at it. Her eyes follow mine, though I doubt she has any clue of what any of that means. I laugh and glance at her quickly.

“Good.” She’s silent as I type in the name that’s been hammered into my head: Rhea Boudreaux . “Because I may have just found her.”

Her silence shatters when the screen fills with photos of the girl that’s got everyone worked up.

I tap on one of the pictures—the one with the most recent time stamp. It’s from five days ago, but it’s the best I have. The location coordinates pop up under the pad of my finger, and another tap sends the map zooming out so that I can read the location.

Dubai.