“What in the world possessed you to date him, then?”
Turning my head, I look at Jonas. “The same thing that told me to proposition you.”
His face tenses, an unreadable expression passing over his face that has my stomach dropping to my ass, though I can’t quite pinpoint why.
“And what was that?”
I consider lying again and giving the spiel about Daddy making me date someone. About being my own person and wanting to make decisions for myself that have nothing to do with Primrose Realty or publicity.
But the truth is that my decision to enter a fake relationship with him wasn’t a choice at all.
It was an impulse. A split-second action driven entirely by the part of my brain that refuses to let me do what I want in the first place.
So, instead, I give him this.
Because I want more from him.
“A whim. I didn’t think about it, I just… did it because something in my gut told me to.”
22
My brother rubs his temple with a knuckle, watching as I kneel in front of Carl Campbell, the acquisitions manager at Primrose Realty.
Once a CPA in his hometown of Pittsburgh, Carl’s background in finance and experience with embezzlement made him the perfect candidate for Tom’s shady corporation.
On the surface, Primrose Realty was merely a company interested in building its portfolio by obtaining large commercial properties and selling them for profit. The reality, however, was a far more common practice for many businesses; the purchasing of real estate acted as a veil, keeping the facade of legitimacy up while they were busy extorting and laundering, and sometimes, trafficking.
That aspect was where my father, Duncan Wolfe, came in. His connections and associations put him at the center of fostering a mutually beneficial relationship with the Primroses, who used generational wealth to buy up half the island.
According to Carl, my father’s direct involvement with both parties made him the perfect scapegoat, which is exactly what Tom and company turned him into.
The list Alistair gave me doxes those involved in the framing and the cover-up, and Carl sits relatively high up because, supposedly, the initial plan was hatched in his brain.
How perfectly ironic that he’s currently in so much agony, he can’t seem to hatch a coherent thought, other than plead for me to stop.
Pushing the ignition on the handheld propane torch, I tilt the W-shaped end of the steak brand—a gift from Alistair one Christmas, and one I keep at The Flaming Chariot—and let the flames heat the metal. The silver tip glows orange, extreme heat radiating off of it and warming my face.
Carl twists in the chair he’s strapped to, sobbing into a dirty rag. Tears stream down his face, which only makes him cry harder as the salty droplets seep into the wounds gracing both cheeks.
“I do believe the W is my favorite letter. It’s so perfectly symmetrical and looks delightful when burned into one’s flesh. Wouldn’t you agree, brother?”
Turning the blow torch toward Carl, I let the flame scorch his bare knee. The smell of singed flesh permeates the office, and part of me considers the logic in bringing work to my pub during business hours.
Oh, well. Carl’s fault for patronizing the place, anyway. It was much easier to take care of him here than chase him down and make a whole thing about it.
Alistair snaps one of his suspender straps against his chest, blowing out a breath. “I don’t have particular feelings about any letters in the alphabet, Jonas. Can we please get on with this? Some of us have meetings to attend.”
“It’s almost midnight,” I point out, reheating the end of the brand.
“I didn’t say it was an official meeting.”
Rolling my eyes, I push into a standing position and set the torch on my desk. Carl’s wet whimpers are music to my ears as I push the rod into his left pectoral, lining it up so it matches the mark on his right.
A hissing sound erupts from the sight, and his head rears back in agony.
Even when done properly, branding runs several risks. At its best, the direct contact of the heated element to skin results in nerve and cell damage, which is the exact reason I began implementing its use in my hits over the years.
No matter how you do it, the brand bloody hurts, and though I’m not typically interested in torturing my targets, their pain is satisfying, nonetheless.
Plus, there’s the added benefit of their anger when they realize the mark is likely permanent, leaving a piece of the Wolfe family with them forever.
As his screaming subsides, I reach forward and tug the rag from his mouth. He pants, glaring at me for a long moment before twisting his mouth up and spitting.
He hasn’t been hydrated in several hours and has cried, sweated, or pissed most of his body’s natural lubrication out, so the spit doesn’t get far. It drops on the wooden floor, joining the blood and urine pooling beneath our feet.
I click my tongue in disapproval, increasing the pressure on his chest. “That wasn’t very nice.”
“You’re… an… asshole,” Carl chokes out, gasping maniacally as the brand pushes deeper.
“And you’re about three seconds from me sodomizing you with this rod.” Yanking back, I give him a moment’s reprieve. “Tell me what else you know, and I’ll consider overlooking that little tantrum.”
“I don’t have any more information,” he grits out.
“Don’t see how he can think at all with you mutilating him.”
My head whips toward Alistair. “Do you have a problem with my methods, brother? Because I’ve certainly never heard you complain when it benefits you.”
Alistair runs a hand over his face. “I don’t care if you bleed the man dry. I’m just saying it’s hard to formulate a train of thought when your brain is also focusing on the pain receptors in your body. That’s just science.”
“Okay, fine.”
Dropping the iron to the ground, I walk over to the safe in the wall, dialing the pin so it unlocks. Inside, there are two handguns, several clear vials with tape labels, and stacks of cash shrink-wrapped and stuffed in the back.
Grabbing a vial with a blue piece of tape stuck to it, I shut the safe and reach into the cabinet next to the built-in bookshelf behind Carl. Pulling out a syringe, I take a step back, swiping a cloth and a tube of burn ointment, then walk back over to him.
Squeezing some of the cream onto the cloth, I hold it up for Carl to see. “This is probably going to sting, so I’ll need to numb the area first.”
The man doesn’t say anything, which I take as tacit compliance. Not like he can stop me, since his hands are cuffed behind him and his feet are taped to the chair legs.
Turning the vial over, I stick the tip of the syringe into the soft top, extracting the liquid slowly. Pocketing the glass container, I flick the tube to get rid of bubbles and point the needle at his bare bicep.
He groans as I inject the liquid, slathering the ointment over his chest at the same time.
“There,” I say, giving the lad a smirk. “I’ve scratched your back, perhaps now you can answer my bloody questions.”
Carl nods, and I move to the other pec, applying the cream there as well. “Look, kid, all I know is that your father was nosing around back when Tom started involving himself with other figureheads. Technically, Tom was under oath to work exclusively with your father and his organization, but he started other business deals anyway. Your father didn’t take kindly to it.”