“Why is she in here with you?” He glanced at the fighter.
She glared back, a hostile, rancorous glare that promised death to him and everyone if she broke free.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
She slowly raised a hand, dragging the chain across her lap, and extended her middle finger.
The blonde moaned, choking out another plea for death. Her cries thickened with distress, producing a change in the fighter’s expression.
For a fleeting moment, those savage eyes softened. Grief, compassion, whatever it was sank into the grooves of her battered, swollen face, blurring her gaze in a sheen of moisture.
Then she blinked, and the tenderness vanished, replaced with red-hot fury.
Do it. Her eyes demanded.
A camera hung in the doorway. Would they try to stop him? Shoot him for interfering?
Fuck it.
Fuck the cartel. Fuck his dead parents. Fuck Van Quiso. Fuck every injustice he’d ever gone up against. None of it owned him.
But this? This he couldn’t walk away from.
As the blonde continued to cry, he blocked everything out—Tomas, the fighter, the mission. He put one foot before the other and did the only thing he could do.
He stood behind her inverted body, wrapped a large hand over her nose and mouth, and smothered her air.
She struggled, an involuntary reaction as her mutilated body fought to breathe. His other hand held the crown of her head, his fingers hidden by her crusty hair, discreetly massaging, stroking her scalp. The only comfort he could offer.
As interminable seconds passed, he felt chunks of his soul rip away. He was breaking inside. Battling hardwired convictions. Roaring on his knees. Dying with this girl.
Dying.
Dying.
Make it end. God almighty, I can’t do this.
But he did. He finished it, holding her against him as she fell limp.
Lifeless.
Gone.
Fucking God, help me. What have I done?
He’d killed men before. Vile men. But never with his bare hands. Never a woman.
Never an innocent.
His chest squeezed so tightly he thought his heart stopped working. But no, it was still beating, pulsing strenuously, yet… Altered. Twisted into something nastier. Stiffer. Thorny. No longer human.
Raising his head, his gaze caught on the fighter. She watched him, motionless, her expression iced over with suspicion and horror, but deeper, closer, he glimpsed gratitude.
He hadn’t done it for her. He hadn’t done it for himself, either, and he would live with the cold, stricken guilt for the rest of his life.
She and Tomas hadn’t been the only witnesses to his heinous crime. Marco and Vera stood in the doorway, clotting the room with displeasure.
Pure scum of the earth. Neither of them deserved to breathe, let alone stand there in a snit of condemnation. Marco had butchered a young girl, strung her up like slaughtered meat, and left her to die.
Luke’s vision turned red. Adrenaline charged, and wrath fired on all cylinders.
Kill him.
Gut him.
Make him pay.
He would. Goddammit, he would exterminate all of them. But to do that, he had to become a man that no one fucked with.
Make them cower.
Earn their horror and respect.
Beat them at their own game.
With his hands still wrapped around the dead girl’s head, he showed them a monster that all monsters feared.
“Look what you made me do.” He hauled the corpse upward so that he could stare into the dead eyes. “Sniveling little cunt. We could’ve played so well together, but you just…wouldn’t…shut up.” He shook the body, punctuating every word before shoving it away. “What a waste.”
His stomach cramped. Saliva gathered around his gums. He was going to puke.
“This is unexpected.” Marco lumbered into the room, head tilted. “You killed her… Because she was crying? That will cost you—”
“She was half-dead.” He wiped off his hands on a clean scrap of her shirt. “I’m not paying for broken goods. Besides, I know which one I want.”
He prowled a circuit around Marco and paused before the fighter, staring down at her with a malicious smile.
Realization burst behind her eyes, and she went wild, spitting a string of Spanish and bucking in her restraints.
Across the room, Tomas shot him a look that said he didn’t agree with the turn of events.
Too bad. Luke refused to leave the girl chained in the dark with a corpse.
“This one,” he announced to the room.
“No.” Marco folded his arms over his chest. “She belongs to me.”
“And your brothers.” Vera scowled.
“I see. And those hypercars out front?” Luke clasped his hands behind him, head down, with his back to Marco. “They belong to you, too?”
“Of course.”
“Of course.” He glanced over his shoulder. “When I arrived, Vera promised I could test drive one of your toys around the property.”
Her eyes widened. “I didn’t promise—”
“Shh.” Marco’s hand slashed through the air, and he held Luke’s gaze, deadly captivated. “Is that right?”
“Yes. Perhaps you can appease me another way.” Luke straightened his suit jacket and turned to face the capo. “Sell me the Pagani Huayra.”
Marco laughed, a shocked sound, and sobered abruptly. “Not in a million lifetimes.”
“What’s her name?”
“The Huayra?”
“The whore.” Luke met her livid stare.
“Who cares?” Marco grunted. “She’s a whore.”
“Which do you value more? The Huayra or the whore?”
“There are only a few hundred Huayras in existence.”
“I’m aware. Yet I’m only asking to test drive a common whore.”
“Ah.” A humorless grin underscored Marco’s wagging finger. “I see what you’re doing.” Then he went still, thoughtful. “Just a test drive?”
“Give me a week with her. I’ll keep her in working, fighting condition. At the end of the week, if she still holds my attention, we’ll discuss a more permanent arrangement. If not, I’ll pay for the mileage I put on her and make another selection.”
Marco’s eyebrows pulled tight, his gaze narrowed on the thrashing fighter, considering her worth.
“Why her?” Vera fisted her hands, the snarl of her lips baring white teeth. “Omar will not allow—”
“Cállate!” Marco returned fire, spitting a mouthful of Spanish before thrusting a finger at the door. “íVete!”
With an enraged glower at Luke, Vera spun and stormed out of the room.
“I’ll gladly test drive Ms. Gomez, instead.” Luke ogled at her retreating backside, angling his neck and making a show of it.
She slammed to a stop, just long enough to shoot daggers over her shoulder before vanishing around the corner.
“No, no, no.” Marco shook his head, chuckling. “I will not share that one.”
“Because she’s your sister?”
“Because she’s mine.” With that unnerving announcement, the man removed a key from his pocket and held it up. “I give you a week with the whore. But I warn you. Watch the grill.” He gestured at his mouth. “She bites.”