Page 185 of Tell Me Pucking Lies

“What is it?”

“Your stepbrother.”

“You want your Reaper?” I take a step closer, watching his men shift in the shadows. I can count at least four of them, maybe five. “Go fetch him yourself.”

The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on. Gilbert’s expression doesn’t change, but I can see the calculation behind his eyes, the way he’s reassessing me. Deciding whether I’m brave or just stupid.

Then he laughs. Actually laughs, the sound echoing off the concrete walls. “You’ve got balls, boy. I’ll give you that.”

“I’ve got a lot more than that.”

Gilbert’s smile fades. “Do you? Because from where I’m standing, you’ve got nothing. No family. No protection. No leverage.” He takes a step closer, and I can smell his cologne now—expensive, subtle. “Vincent’s dead. His empire is mine. And you? You’re just a stray dog looking for a new master.”

“Fuck you.” The words come out flat, final.

“Why are you even here?” Gilbert asks, his voice turning conversational like we’re discussing the weather. “Looking for Vincent? Hoping to finally put a bullet in daddy dearest?”

The mockery in his tone makes my hands clench into fists. He sees it and smiles wider.

“Or maybe you’re here for answers. Want to know who gave the order, who pulled the trigger, who ended your sad little revenge fantasy before you could.”

I move without thinking, closing the distance between us in two strides. My fist connects with his jaw before his men can react, the impact sending pain shooting up my arm. His head snaps to the side, blood appearing at the corner of his mouth.

But he’s laughing. Actually laughing as he straightens, wiping the blood away with his thumb. “There it is. There’s the monster Vincent made.”

Then everything happens at once.

His men rush me from the shadows—four of them, maybe five, I lose count as the first one crashes into my side. I throw an elbow back, feel it connect with something soft. Someone grunts. Another set of hands grabs my arm, and I twist, breaking the grip, throwing a punch that catches someone in the throat.

They’re good, though. Trained. Not like Vincent’s usual thugs who rely on intimidation and numbers. These guys know how to fight, how to work as a unit.

One of them gets behind me, arm wrapping around my throat in a chokehold. I throw my head back, feel the satisfying crunch of his nose breaking. His grip loosens and I spin, driving my knee into his gut.

But there are too many. A fist catches me in the kidney, and I stumble, legs going weak. Another blow to the back of my head makes my vision blur, stars exploding across my sight.

I keep fighting. Keep swinging even as they drag me down, even as my knees hit the concrete. I catch one of them in the face, feel teeth give way under my knuckles. Another in the ribs, hard enough to hear something crack.

But they’re overwhelming me, piling on, and my movements are getting slower, sloppier. One of them has my arm twisted behind my back at an angle that makes my shoulder scream. Another has his knee in my spine, pressing down.

“Enough,” Gilbert says calmly, and they freeze.

I’m breathing hard, blood running into my eyes from a cut somewhere on my forehead. My mouth tastes like copper. Everything hurts in that immediate, sharp way that means I’m going to feel this for days.

Gilbert crouches down in front of me, his suit somehow still immaculate. “You fight well. Vincent taught you that much, at least.”

“Fuck—” I start, but one of his men drives a fist into my gut, forcing the air out of my lungs.

Gilbert reaches into his jacket and pulls something out. A syringe. The liquid inside is clear, catching the flickering light.

My eyes widen. I start fighting again, thrashing against the hands holding me, but they’ve got me pinned. One of them grabs my jaw, forcing my head still, and I see Gilbert’s face swim into focus above me.

“This would have been easier if you’d just listened,” he says almost regretfully. “And didn’t your sweet old step daddy do this to you?”

The needle pierces my neck, sharp and burning. I feel the plunger depress, feel whatever chemical cocktail they’ve loaded flooding into my bloodstream. It burns, spreading like fire through my veins.

“No—” The word comes out slurred.

“Yes,” Gilbert says, standing. “Unfortunately.”