Page 90 of The Wicked

“Buddy, just—just calm—”

He jammed the metal clamps to both my ribs, and a searing, sharp, burning sensation swept through my body like knives; it felt like every organ inside me grew sharp pointy edges, stabbing me from the inside out. The pain had my body shaking violently; the electric current was slicing my muscles apart one by one. A strangulated scream left me, and he drew back the clamps.

My breathing was nothing but short gasps, and I felt warm and cold at the same damn time. “Well”—my lips trembled—“that’s one way to shut me up.”

It had been years since I’d felt torture like this. It wasn’t unfamiliar. I’d undergone what Manuel had called necessary training. He’d shown me pain. Different kinds. He needed me to be strong. Ready to stand by his side, rule with him. I knew this pain, felt worse than this pain—but I wasn’t prepared for this, and that alone made the pain hurt more than it was supposed to.

“Manuel Conti sent you to find the painting. Why?” Buzzcut asked.

“Who the fuck is Manuel Conti—” The clamps were back on my ribs, and my body shook in spasms, my teeth pressing together as I tried but failed to suppress my groans of pain. He released me again, and I gasped out, my breathing noisy and labored.

“This time, I want you to answer me with the truth; I will increase the voltage if you don’t.”

I let out a shaky breath, my body growing weaker with each passing second.

“I was paid f-five thousand fucking doll—ars to retrieve the painting for an unknown client. If this”—I swallowed—“if this person is Manuel Conti, whoever that is, I don’t know them. No names were—were given when I passed information across to them.”

“I know your face. I know you know him. And he sent you. Manuel Conti doesn’t care about gold. So, there must be something else, and we want to know what it is.”

What?

“Gold? There’s—there’s gold in the painting?” I asked, my surprise rocking some strength back into my body.

“Don’t act like you don’t know.” The man sneered, rubbing the clamps together.

My gaze dropped to the clamps.

He moved closer. “Talk.”

“Just c-calm down, okay? You don’t think I was fucking surprised when I was sent five thousand dollars to retrieve that ugly painting? I thought I hit the jackpot, but now you’re talking about—about gold? I was cheated.”

“Quit playing dumb. We want to know why Manuel Conti wants the painting. What else is there with the gold?”

I sighed, confusion gripping me. “Who the fuck is Manuel Conti? Whoever you think I am, I promise—I promise you’ve got the wrong girl.”

“Increase the voltage,” the man said with a no-nonsense tone.

“Oh God, I’m fucking serious; I don’t know what you’re talking abo—ghhhhh.” My body locked on tight as it shook violently; I felt the sharp, painful, blood-draining zap from my head to the soles of my feet, my toes curling, the strain on my arms—the pain gripping my insides so fucking unbearable, I didn’t bother to hide my screams this time. My throat burned, my chest squeezed—

He released me again, and my body slumped, my head lolled to the side, and my breathing grew faint.

His hand came underneath my chin, raising my head.

“Talk now, or I kill you,” he said.

I smiled, then a broken chuckle left me, and then a laugh; though weak, it still sounded like I was deranged.

I licked my bottom lip. “What do you… think, Buzzcut, that you’ll… you’ll shock me a few times, then I’ll, what—cry and tell you all I know about Manuel Conti?” I drawled.

An unsettled look flashed in his eyes, making my smile widen as I said, “You don’t… you don’t know who you’re fucking with. I humbly suggest you go back to your boss and tell him to leave Manuel to his business.”

“So, you admit you know him.”

I didn’t respond, and his eyes scanned my body from head to toe. “You admit you’re his… whore?”

My jaw clenched as he dropped the clamps, his finger coming to trace my jaw, down to my collarbone, then to my chest.

My hand formed a tight fist above me as I tried to level my breathing. “Get yourfuckinghands off me,” I gritted.