Page 2 of Veiled Vengeance (The Devils of New York #3)

SPENCER

I can’t feel anything.

I think this is what psychologists call disassociation. I’m unable to scrounge up an ounce of care—not even for Iris, my friend. I should be strong for her; she’s been one of my main supports this year. I should tell her that I will get us out of this. I have to get us out of this.

“Iris?” I hiss at her. She still isn’t awake, but moans.

“Ignore her, Flower.”

“Iris, wake up,” I try again.

The sun is now firmly over the horizon. The light illuminates the discoloration on Asher’s and Iris’s skin.

The dry blood on Asher’s temple, nose, and lip has turned a dark rust hue.

The heat from the summer air hugs the windows from the outside, but the chill of the room clings to my skin, covering my body in goosebumps.

Asher looks to me with his one swollen eye. Pity fills his face as he cautions me. “Spencer, no.” He shakes his head, warning me to stop.

Stop what? Stop trying? I can’t. My mom . . . No. Not yet. I’ll think about that later.

Anthony turns his back to me while he takes a phone call and gives more orders to his men.

“I’m going to get us out of here. Don’t worry,” I assure him in hushed tones.

“Rio and Zane will come for us—we discussed this. We just need to survive until they get here.”

“There’s only two of them, and Anthony has more than ten men here. Those aren’t good odds. And Iris . . .” Doubt settles into my chest.

Anthony claps his hands. “Well, let’s get down to it, shall we?”

My body goes rigid remembering the “training” he discussed and attempted last night. “No,” I whisper in fear. But I notice his attention is not on me, but on Iris.

Anthony snaps his fingers. “Get her up.”

Two men haul her up by her arms and raise her bound wrists over her head. They grab a hook hanging from the ceiling and attach the tape to her wrists. Her toes barely scrape the ground and she moans again at the pain.

Anthony viciously grabs her face, pinching her cheeks together. “Sweet, sweet Dahlia. Such a disappointment.” When he lets go, he throws her face to the side.

My lips purse together tightly.

Dahlia?

Anthony picks up on my uncertainty and a smug look crosses his face as he turns to me. “Didn’t you know? Dahlia here is one of my most trusted employees.”

My heart hollows out. I’m empty. “Iris?”

“I’m so sorry . . .” she chokes out, her eyes barely open. “I didn’t want to.”

Tears of betrayal sting my eyes. My trusted friend. I let her in.

Is this all my life is meant to be? Everyone lies. Everyone keeps secrets. Am I that dumb and ignorant? Am I that desperate that I’m such an easy target?

Anthony’s sugary tone leaves a sour taste in my mouth. “Oh, we both know that’s not true. You’d do anything, have done anything, just to see him.”

I don’t want to give into the bait, but I can’t help myself. I deserve answers. “Him?”

Anthony’s face brightens as I give in to his narrative. “Her son.”

Son?! But Iris . . . Dahlia is only nineteen!

“It’s a good thing she kept her figure after she had him, or else I would’ve had to terminate her employment early.

” He twirls a lock of her hair between his fingers.

“It’s too bad she failed, though. She wasn’t supposed to let you get close to those .

. . heathens.” He spits out the last word like it’s diseased and glares at Asher.

“You didn’t . . . specify that . . . when you told me . . . to watch her . . .” Iris is barely able to get out her words. She wheezes and coughs as blood trickles from the corner of her mouth.

That’s not good . . .

The slap is loud and echoes off the cement walls and glass windows, jolting me in my chair. Asher clenches his jaw, and his fists go taut. Dahlia’s head whips to the side from the force of Anthony’s hand.

“Don’t get technical with me—you’re on a short leash. Your little act of rebellion is going to cost you.” Anthony goes from self-satisfied to incensed in less than a second. His moods are unpredictable and make me feel on edge.

“I did just as . . . you asked. Let me see my August . . . I want to see him . . .” Dahlia croaks out.

I feel more than see the punch to her torso. I wince at the impact while Dahlia coughs up more blood. The concern for her wellbeing shouldn’t be there—I should be angry with her. But right next to the betrayal in my heart sits sympathy, and it’s growing larger with each word from her mouth.

She has a son , and it sounds like Anthony keeps him away from her. I may not be a mother, but I know what I would do for those I love. And knowing that Anthony runs a human trafficking ring? I can’t imagine what is happening to that little boy.

But what do I know? Up until a minute ago, I didn’t even know Iris’s— Dahlia’s real name. What was fake, and what was real with us?

Anthony grips Dahlia’s hair at the crown of her head and yanks her head back as far as it’ll go.

She lets out a scratchy, gurgled yelp. The angle is uncomfortable just to watch; I can’t imagine the pain she’s in.

“If you think I’m going to let you see him after you failed to deliver on your end, you’re horribly mistaken. ” He drops her hair like it burned him.

“Fuck . . . You . . .”

Anthony shakes his head side to side. “Tsk, tsk. Dahlia, Dahlia, Dahlia. You know better than to talk to me like that. Sounds like you need to learn another lesson.” He snaps his fingers again, and the same two men from before walk forward to where Dahlia hangs.

Dahlia collects what little energy she has. She opens her eyes again and shoots a withering look toward Anthony. “Bring it.”

Anthony releases a derisive laugh and addresses the two men but maintains eye contact with Dahlia. “Have at her, gentlemen.”

“Don’t look, Spencer,” Asher demands, but I ignore him.

I won’t leave Dahlia alone in this moment.

I was alone before—no one deserves that emptiness.

The people who take are already leaving her with nothing; I don’t have to do the same.

It doesn’t matter what she’s done to me, I won’t turn my back on her.

No one deserves to be alone when they already feel helpless and weak.

Dahlia’s eyes meet mine. The fear there is unmistakable, but it quickly fades, and resolve replaces it.

One of the men unbuckles his belt while the other yanks down Dahlia’s pants without care.

For the next hour or more, the room is a rotating door of various employees taking turns with Dahlia’s body.

She doesn’t let out a single cry. Tears leak from the corners of her eyes, but she remains stoic.

Each teardrop of her eye pairs with ten or more of my own.

Asher trembles with irate energy as each man finishes with Dahlia.

Anthony watches the entire scene like it’s a nighttime sitcom, telling each man “good job” when they’re done.

This isn’t the first time she’s endured this—that much is evident. But I’ll make sure it’s her last.