The Villain (Boston Belles 2)

But I couldn’t. I couldn’t rope her into my mess. It was mine to fix.

“You’re not the naïve little damsel everyone thinks you are.” Belle killed the engine, and I realized we were parked outside her building. “You have nails and teeth, and a spine to go with them. Persephone wasn’t only a floral maiden. She was also the queen of death. Your groom’s in for a rude awakening. But know this—if Kill ever tries to play Hades, I’d descend to the underworld myself to rip his balls off.”

“All there?” Byrne sniffed. He peered into the open black duffel bag. Kaminski stood behind him, arms crossed over his chest, watching us like The Mountain, Queen Cersei’s killer guard.

“Count it,” Sam ordered, spitting his cigarette on the floor.

Byrne began to sift through the money, which was bonded in hundred-dollar notes. His posture eased for the first time since we walked into his house. We were in his office, delivering our part of the bargain. Byrne had insisted we come to his place, probably because his office had more weapons in it than a tactical shop.

“Kam.” Byrne snapped his fingers as he counted, separating the notes by licking his fingers. His soldier leaned forward. Byrne used the opportunity to smack the back of his assistant’s head.

“Count with me, you useless sack of meat.”

It took them twenty minutes before they were satisfied all the money was there. They zipped the bag, Byrne smiling at us politely.

“I’m pleased to say we have no outstanding debts between us, gentlemen. Thank you for your business.”

Sam nodded, stood, and turned around. I followed suit. We reached the door. Instead of opening it, Sam turned the lock on the door, the soft click signaling we weren’t done after all.

“Actually,” Brennan hissed, “we do have one outstanding matter to resolve.”

We both put on our leather gloves.

“What would that be?” Byrne gulped.

Sam smiled manically. “Your fucking bones.”

An hour later, I finally felt I was getting my money’s worth.

“Can I tell you a little secret?” Sam’s lit cigarette hung from his lips as he tied a thoroughly beaten up Colin Byrne to his own bed, cuffing him to the rails, tugging hard. “I’ve always had a weakness for numbers. Don’t know what it is about them, Byrne, but they calm me down. They make sense. My son of a bitch sperm donor was good at nothing but numbers. Guess I got the knack from him.”

“Please,” Byrne sputtered, teeth chattering, chest caving. “I already told you, I didn’t know she was under your protection. I had no idea, man—”

“Stop begging, unless you want me to cut you a nice smile to remind you how cheerful you were when you paid her your weekly visits.” Sam dumped a towel over Byrne’s head. The heavy fabric muffled his desperate pleas. “Now, here’s what this math enthusiast wants to know. Why would a loan shark inflate his interest by two hundred percent when the market standard is fifty? Is it possible you took advantage of the lovely creature Paxton Veitch had left behind and decided to whore her out, knowing she could make you a fast buck?”

Before Byrne could answer, Sam grabbed a bucket of water and slowly poured its contents over his face, waterboarding him.

Bracing the top of the doorframe with both hands, I watched Brennan handling Byrne while his assistant, Kaminski, hung by his arms from a hook in the ceiling where the chandelier had been. Kaminski looked like a skinned pig with his head covered in a burlap sack.

Sam dropped the empty bucket, tipping the cigarette ash on Byrne’s bare stomach. He removed the towel from Byrne’s head, who took a greedy gulp of air.

“Veitch wanted to whore out his wife all by himself before he fucked off!” Byrne coughed, desperately trying to unchain himself from the bedrails. “He wanted to kidnap her and give her to me. I told him not to bother. That I didn’t want the FBI on my tail. Human trafficking will get you a shit-ton of jail time. I even gave the bitch extra time to pay me back.”

Sam tsked, turning his head in my direction. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“We’re dealing with a patron saint,” I deadpanned, strolling into the room. I’d asked Sam to allow me to be present during this job even though I knew better than to accompany him to any of the other errands he usually ran for me. This felt personal. Not because I had any feelings toward my future wife, but because Kaminski and Byrne had defaced my property, and for that, they needed to pay.

Sweat, blood, and tears were my preferred currency.

Grabbing a fire poker hanging by the mantel, I brought the tip to the dancing flames in the fireplace, heating it up before swinging it in my hand like a golf club as I approached Kaminski.