"I hope you haven't broken most of his bones yet," I tell Franco as we head toward the room where our prisoner waits.
"Knowing Franco," Lewinsky drawls behind us, keeping close, "if he worked alone, he'd have the bastard decapitated in no time. Good thing we've got the logical Miles to stop him from escalating things prematurely."
When we step inside, my gaze lands on the man strapped to a chair. His face is a canvas of bruises, but all his limbs are still attached. Good.
I'd love to break him myself.
"Hello, Lionel," I say, dragging a chair across the floor and planting it in front of him.
I sit. Lewinsky and Franco remain standing at my sides.
Lionel's eyes had flickered with surprise the second I walked in, but now, seated this close, I see the truth beneath it—raw, unfiltered fear. The kind a man feels when he realizes the devil he mocked in stories is real, and sitting right in front of him.
Shame he's not ready to be dragged to hell yet.
