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“Did you kill Frank Palermo?”

Trick’s eyes narrow. “Frank Palermo got killed while shooting at his own daughter and her mother.”

“I know, but who shot him?” I ask, and I’m not sure who I’m asking for. I’ve already thrown away the wire. Would an admission from him now change things and make me report what he tells me to the FBI? No, even the thought makes me uncomfortable.

His deep blue gaze locks onto my face. “Frank Palermo was in a moving car that was spraying bullets in a wide arc. Shooting Frank wasn’t amateur hour.”

It’s as close to an admission as I’m likely to get. Strangely, I don’t have an emotional reaction. Maybe because I’m convinced Frank Palermo was a bigger monster than Trick and his friends will ever be. I remember the stories of Palermo forcing young kids to work for him as runners or mules, and the beatings they got if they made mistakes. The rumor is that Connor McCann ordered that to stop, but it didn’t. And Trick fought with an older man in the Palermo organization, which caused the break where C Crue formed their own organization. The trafficking didn’t really make sense since C Crue’s reputation has never been one of an organization that preys on kids. So either the trafficking is something C Crue rationalizes in a different way, or the FBI made a mistake in attributing trafficking to them.

Closing my eyes tight, I try to force the tears to stop as I suck in a shuddering breath. I do not want to sob again.

“How many people have you killed?” I whisper.

“Who’s Milt Schager?”

“A man who’s set on catching you. There are probably a lot of them, and rightly so it seems.” My voice is harsher than I mean for it to be.

He chuckles. “You think your ass can take the punishment your smart mouth is asking for?”

I suck in a breath, but when I speak my voice is firm. “No more.”

“Then spill the details.”

“There’s nothing more to tell.”

“Wrong answer.” The paddle slams down against my ass.

I screech and then let loose a string of curses.

He paddles me faster and harder, until I’m sobbing and broken again, and this time shaking racks my body and I’m limp over the wedge, completely defenseless.

“Who is he?”

The truth’s his for the taking, like my body. It’s confusing to want closeness from him in the midst of this agony, but I do. When we were younger, I loved the sweetness and sexiness I always got from him. But a part of me finds this darkness compelling and sexy, too. This version of him is the one I’ve always wanted to know.

The words are choppy and slurred as I cry. “He’s FBI. They want access to your network.” Then I circle back to the thing that matters to me. I need to know the truth, so I push him. “The girls in the picture he showed me were so young. They looked twelve. How can you guys do that to children? You have sisters, Scott.”

“He tricked you. There’s no human trafficking. Whatever picture he showed you, it wasn’t from a C Crue operation. And your falling for it shows you don’t know me at all.” He pulls the wedge out from under me and un-cuffs my wrists and ankles.

I curl into a ball, crying partly from pain, partly from relief that he’s done punishing me, and partly because it hurts to hear the disgust in his tone when he says I don’t know him.

The jagged sobs hurt my raw throat.

He stands and silently walks out.

I cover my face, trying to muffle the crying that I can’t seem to stop.

After a few moments, he returns and the bed sags under his weight. “Here.” A warm washcloth lands on my hands. “If this—if things were another way, I’d take care of you.”

“What?” I rasp, confused. Putting my face into the wet rag, I let it catch my sobs.

He’s silent for a time. “Fuck it.” He lies on the bed and pushes my knees down so he can pull my chest against his chest.

I struggle a little, but it’s token resistance. I can’t explain why, but I let him draw me to him and lock his arms around me, the ones that were punishing me just minutes earlier.

“You can’t do these kinds of things. You just can’t,” I whisper.

He holds me tighter, rubbing my back, pushing his thumbs into pressure points until my aching muscles release and relax. I’ve had them clenched so hard they were spasming; it feels so much better when he forces me to let go of the tension.