Chapter 5: The Truth Comes Out
The silence that followed was the kind that had weight—the kind that pressed down on your chest and made it hard to breathe, the kind that filled your ears with the sound of your own heartbeat and nothing else.
Roxy let it stretch.
She didn't fidget. Didn't look away. Didn't do any of the things guilty people did when they were waiting for the axe to fall. She just sat there with her arms crossed and her coffee going cold in front of her and her eyes fixed on Damien Moretti's face.
He hadn't moved since she'd finished talking. His tablet sat on the table, screen dark, forgotten. His hands were flat against the marble—fingers spread wide, knuckles white. The muscle in his jaw twitched once. Twice. A vein she hadn't noticed before stood out against his temple like a warning.
Valentina recovered first.
Her fork clinked against her plate—a small, sharp sound that cut through the quiet like a gunshot. She set it down carefully, deliberately, and folded her hands in front of her. When she looked at Roxy, her expression had shifted. The cold amusement was gone. What replaced it was something sharper. Something that looked almost like respect.
"You buried him," Valentina said.
"I did."
"Where?"
"Behind the barn. Under the compost pile." Roxy picked up her coffee and took a sip. The liquid was lukewarm and bitter, but she made herself drink it. "Our dad used to spread manure there every spring. Nobody ever dug it up. Nobody ever looked."
"And your father?"
"Died two years later. Heart attack. I didn't go to the funeral."
Marco shifted by the door. His breathing had gone shallow, and when Roxy glanced at him, his face was the color of old milk. She felt a flicker of something—not guilt, not exactly, but something close. She'd seen that look before. On the faces of men who'd never killed anyone, who'd never had to, who thought they knew what violence was until they were standing in a room with someone who'd actually done it.
"You didn't just bury him," Damien said.
His voice was quiet. Controlled. Like he was holding something back. Like if he let it slip, it might tear the room apart.
"No," Roxy agreed. "I didn't."
"You cut him up first."
"Had to. He was too big for the hole. I was fifteen. I weighed maybe a hundred and ten pounds soaking wet. I couldn't lift him, couldn't drag him, couldn't do anything except what I did." She set her cup down and looked at him. "You want the details? You want to know which knife I used? How long it took? What I did with the parts I couldn't fit?"
Damien's jaw tightened. "No."
"Then stop asking questions you don't want the answers to."
The room went quiet again.
Roxy could hear the fountain outside—the soft splash of water against stone, the distant chirp of birds that didn't know or care that they were living in a graveyard. The morning light had shifted, slanting through the sheer curtains at a different angle, catching the black crystals of the chandelier and scattering shadows across the table.
Valentina reached for her coffee. Took a sip. Set it down.
"You're not lying," she said.
"No."
"How do I know?"
Roxy laughed. It came out hollow. "You don't. That's the thing about liars—they're good at what they do. I could be lying right now. I could be spinning some elaborate story to make myself look dangerous, to make you think twice about whatever you're planning. But I'm not. And if you can't tell the difference, that's your problem, not mine."
Valentina's eyes narrowed. "You're very confident."
"I'm very tired." Roxy pushed back from the table and stood. "You wanted to know who I am. Now you know. I'm the girl who killed her little brother because her father told her to. I'm the girl who buried him under a compost pile and went back inside and ate dinner like nothing happened. I'm the girl who's been waiting for someone to ask the right questions for seven years, and now that someone finally has, I'm not going to apologize for the answers."
She looked at Damien.
He was watching her. Still. Silent. His hands had moved—one was wrapped around the edge of the table, grip tight enough to crack the marble. The other was flat against his thigh, hidden beneath the table, and she wondered if it was resting on his gun.
"I told you in the study that I've done things," she said. "That I've seen things. That I've been things. You didn't ask for details then. You were too busy fucking me against your desk."
Valentina's eyebrow arched. She didn't say anything, but the corner of her mouth twitched.
"Now you know," Roxy continued. "So here's the question. What are you going to do about it?"
Damien stood.
He moved slowly—unfolding himself from the chair, straightening to his full height, squaring his shoulders like he was preparing for a fight. His eyes never left her face. When he spoke, his voice was low and measured, each word placed with the precision of a surgeon's knife.
"You're going to work for me."
"I already agreed to that."
"No." He stepped around the table. "You agreed to run errands. To fetch coffee. To be a pretty face in a pretty dress who occasionally warms my bed. That's not what this is anymore."
"Then what is it?"
He stopped in front of her. Close enough that she could see the flecks of silver in his eyes, the faint scar above his left eyebrow, the slight unevenness of his jaw where it had been broken and reset. Close enough that she could smell him—coffee and sandalwood and something underneath that was just skin.
"You're going to be my weapon," he said. "My cleaner. My wet work. Whatever I need, whenever I need it. No questions. No hesitation. No bullshit."
"And what do I get in return?"
"Protection. Money. A place in this family." He paused. "And the truth. About whoever sent those men last night. About whoever's trying to move against me. You'll be in the room when I find them. You'll be the one who ends them."
Roxy looked up at him. At this man who had fucked her on his dining room table, who had given her a necklace that meant something she still didn't understand, who had just offered her a job that most people wouldn't survive.
"What makes you think I want that?"
"Because you stayed." His voice was soft. Almost gentle. "You could have run last night. After you killed those men, you could have walked out the front door and disappeared. Nobody would have stopped you. Nobody would have blamed you. But you didn't. You came back to your room. You put the necklace back on. You showed up for breakfast."
"I was hungry."
"You were curious." He reached up and touched the phoenix pendant where it rested against her collarbone. "You wanted to see what happened next. You wanted to know if I was the kind of man who would flinch when he found out what you really are."
"And are you?"
Damien's mouth curved. Not quite a smile. Something darker. Something that made her stomach tighten and her thighs press together.
"I don't flinch," he said.
Valentina cleared her throat.
They both turned. She was still sitting at the table, her coffee untouched, her expression unreadable. When she spoke, her voice was light—almost pleasant—but there was steel underneath.
"If you two are done with your little moment, I'd like to discuss logistics." She folded her hands on the table. "If Roxy is going to work for the family, there are protocols. Backgrounds to fabricate. Identities to establish. People who need to be informed and people who absolutely cannot know."
"I know how it works," Roxy said.
"Do you?"
"I've been doing this since I was twelve. The only difference is now I'm getting paid for it."
Valentina's smile sharpened. "Good. Then you won't mind a test."
"What kind of test?"
"The kind that proves you're as dangerous as you say you are." She stood, smoothing down the front of her white silk dress. "There's a man. His name is Tomas Reyes. He's been skimming from our operations on the south side—small amounts at first, nothing we'd notice. But it's added up. Twenty thousand over the last six months."
"And you want me to kill him."
"I want you to bring him in." Valentina walked around the table, heels clicking against marble. "Alive. We need to know who else is involved, who he's been talking to, who put him up to it. After we get that information, you can do whatever you want with him."
Roxy considered this. "What's the timeline?"
"Tonight. Marco will give you the address." Valentina stopped beside her husband, close enough to touch. She didn't. "Consider it an audition. Pass, and you're in. Fail, and—" She shrugged. "Well. You won't fail. I don't think you're the failing type."
"Flattery will get you everywhere."
Valentina's smile widened. For a moment—just a moment—Roxy saw something in her eyes that looked almost like approval. Then it was gone, replaced by the same cold mask she'd worn since breakfast began.
"I'll have a room prepared for you," Valentina said. "You can't stay in the guest wing forever. The staff is already gossiping."
"I don't care what the staff thinks."
"You should. They're the eyes and ears of this house. Everything they see, someone hears about it. Everything they hear about, someone uses."
"Then I'll give them something worth talking about."
Valentina laughed. It was a real laugh—warm, unexpected, almost human. It transformed her face, made her look younger, made her look like the kind of woman who might actually be fun to have a drink with.
"I like you," she said. "I didn't expect to. But I do."
"Thanks. I think."
"Don't thank me yet." Valentina turned and walked toward the door. She paused at the threshold, one hand on the frame, and looked back over her shoulder. "Oh, and Roxy? The next time you kill someone in my house, please do it outside. The blood ruins the marble."
She was gone before Roxy could respond.
Marco stepped forward. "I'll have the car ready at seven. Mrs. Moretti will send you the details."
"Fine."
He nodded and disappeared through the same door, leaving Roxy alone with Damien in a room that still smelled like coffee and blood and something else—something that might have been fear, or respect, or the beginning of something neither of them was ready to name.
Damien was still standing in front of her. Still close. Still watching her with those cold blue eyes that had gone hot around the edges.
"You should eat," he said.
"I'm not hungry."
"You barely touched your breakfast."
"I killed two men this morning. It ruined my appetite."
He didn't laugh. Didn't smile. Just reached up and brushed a strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear with a gentleness that contradicted everything about him—the violence in his hands, the coldness in his voice, the blood on his name.
"Roxy."
"What?"
"You don't have to do this."
"The job?"
"The job. The killing. All of it." His hand dropped to her shoulder, squeezed. "You could stay here. I could protect you. You wouldn't have to—"
"Don't." She cut him off. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Pretend like you're giving me a choice." She stepped back, out of his reach. "You told me in the study that you don't keep people. That you don't hold on. But then you gave me a necklace and fucked me on a table and now you're standing here acting like you'd let me walk away if I wanted to."
"You could."
"No. I couldn't." She shook her head. "Not because you'd stop me. Because I don't want to."
Damien went still.
"I don't want to walk away," she continued. "I don't want to go back to the way things were—running errands for small-time bookies, looking over my shoulder, wondering when someone's going to figure out what I did and come for revenge. This is the first time in seven years I've been in a room with people who know exactly what I am and haven't tried to kill me for it."
"Valentina threatened you."
"Valentina warned me. There's a difference." She reached up and touched the necklace. "She said you'd destroy me before you let anyone else have me. She said she'd help. And you know what? I believe her. But I also believe you. When you said you don't flinch, when you said you wanted to know what I really am—I believe you."
Damien stared at her. For a long moment, he didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stood there with his hands at his sides and his eyes fixed on her face like he was trying to memorize every line, every angle, every shadow.
Then he moved.
Not slow this time. Not careful. He grabbed her, spun her around, and bent her over the dining room table—her chest against the marble, her cheek pressed to the cold stone, her hands scrabbling for purchase.
"What are you—"
"Shut up."
He flipped up her dress. The fabric ripped—she heard it, the delicate lace tearing at the hem—and then his hands were on her ass, rough and impatient, pulling down her underwear until it pooled around her ankles.
"This is what you want," he growled. "This is what you've been asking for since you walked into my study."
"I don't—"
"Liar."
His hand came down hard. The slap echoed off the walls—sharp, stinging, loud enough that she gasped. It wasn't gentle. It was raw and possessive and designed to bruise, and it sent heat spreading across her skin like fire.
"You want me to treat you like the killer you are," he said. "You want me to fuck you like I know what you're capable of. Like I'm not afraid."
"I never said—"
"You didn't have to." Another slap. Harder. Her thighs clenched. "I saw it in your eyes when you told me about your brother. You wanted to know if I'd run. You wanted to know if I'd look at you like a monster."
His fingers found her cunt—wet, slick, ready. He pushed two inside without warning, and she moaned, her hips bucking against the table.
"Do I look like I'm running?"
"No—"
"Do I look scared?"
"No—"
"Good." He pulled his fingers out and replaced them with his cock—one brutal thrust, no preparation, no hesitation. She screamed. Not in pain—not exactly—but in something primal that lived between pleasure and surrender.
He fucked her hard. Harder than last time. His hips slammed against her ass with each stroke, the table creaking beneath her, the sound of skin on skin filling the room. He grabbed her hair—fisted it at the scalp—and yanked until her back arched, until her throat was exposed, until she was completely and utterly at his mercy.
"You're my weapon," he said through gritted teeth. "My killer. Mine. Say it."
"I'm—" She gasped. "I'm yours."
"Say it again."
"I'm yours. I'm your weapon. I'm your—"
"Good girl."
He released her hair. Grabbed her hips instead. Drove into her with a rhythm that was almost punishing, almost cruel, but she met him stroke for stroke. She pushed back against him, took him deeper, clenched around him so tight he groaned.
"That's it," he muttered. "That's it. Fucking take it."
She was close. So close. The pressure building low in her belly, spreading through her thighs, making her shake. She needed—
"Please."
He laughed. Low and rough. "Please what?"
"Please let me come."
"Not yet."
"No—"
"Not yet." He slowed. Deliberately. Fucked into her with long, deep strokes that made her want to scream. "You wanted to know what I do to the people I keep. This is it. This is what it means."
"Damien—"
"I'm going to ruin you," he said. "I'm going to make you feel things you didn't know you could feel. I'm going to take you apart and put you back together and take you apart again. And you're going to let me. Because you want it."
"Yes—"
"Because you need it."
"Yes—"
"Because after seven years of pretending you're not a monster, you finally found someone who looks at you and doesn't want to run."
She came.
Orgasasm ripped through her like a blade, sharp and sudden and devastating. She screamed—actually screamed, the sound tearing from her throat and echoing off the chandelier—and her body convulsed around him, gripping his cock so hard he growled.
He didn't stop. Kept fucking her through it, riding her through the aftershocks, his rhythm brutal and relentless. Her nails clawed at the marble. Her legs shook. She was babbling now—filthy things, desperate things, please and don't stop and fuck me harder.
"One more," he said. "Give me one more."
"I can't—"
"You can."
"Damien, please—"
"One more. For me."
And she did. She didn't know how, didn't know where it came from, but the second orgasm built and built and then crashed over her like a wave, dragging her under, drowning her in sensation until she was nothing but a body on a table being fucked by a man who wouldn't stop.
He came a few strokes later.
His hips stuttered. His grip tightened. He buried himself to the hilt and held there, pulsing inside her, a guttural sound tearing from his chest. She felt every spasm. Every hot pulse. Every drop of him spilling into her.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Then he pulled out. Slowly. Carefully. He reached into his pocket, pulled out the same handkerchief from last night—clean now, but still stained with something that might have been her—and pressed it between her legs.
"Don't waste a drop," he said.
Roxy laughed. It came out shaky. Exhausted. "You keep saying that."
"Because I mean it." He helped her up. Turned her to face him. His eyes were softer now, the cold mask cracked at the edges. He reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
"You're going to be late for Marco," he said.
"I know."
"Go clean up. I'll have clothes sent to your room."
"Okay."
She turned to leave. Stopped at the door. Looked back at him—standing there in the middle of the dining hall with his shirt untucked and his hair messy and his eyes fixed on her like she was the only thing in the world worth looking at.
"Damien."
"What?"
"When you find out who sent those men—"
"You'll be the first to know."
"Good." She smiled. It was small. Real. The first genuine smile she'd given anyone in years. "Because I want to be the one who kills them."
She walked out.
The corridor was empty. The marble was cold beneath her bare feet. Somewhere in the distance, she heard Valentina's voice—giving orders to someone, probably Marco—and the sound of heels clicking against stone.
Roxy went to her room.
She showered. Washed the sweat and sex off her skin. Dried her hair. Put on the clothes that had been delivered while she was cleaning herself up—black jeans, a black shirt, a leather jacket that fit like it had been made for her. She laced up her boots—real boots this time, steel-toed, the kind that could crush a skull if you kicked hard enough.
Then she sat on the edge of the bed and waited.
At seven o'clock, she'd meet Marco in the garage.
At seven o'clock, she'd go find Tomas Reyes.
At seven o'clock, she'd become the weapon Damien Moretti had decided she was.
But for now—just for now—she sat in the quiet of her room and touched the pendant around her neck and thought about the look on his face when she'd told him about her brother.
He hadn't flinched.
He hadn't run.
He'd given her a job.
And for the first time in seven years, Roxy Vega felt like she was exactly where she was supposed to be.
The clock on the nightstand read 6:47 when she finished packing.
The backpack was small—black canvas, worn at the corners, something she'd picked up at a surplus store years ago and never bothered to replace. Inside, she'd arranged everything with the precision of someone who'd done this before. Rope, coiled tight. Duct tape, two rolls. Zip ties, a handful in various sizes. And at the bottom, wrapped in a dish towel she'd stolen from the kitchen, a ball gag she'd found in Damien's study drawer.
She didn't want to think about why he had it.
She didn't want to think about why she knew exactly how to use it.
The leather jacket was warm against her skin. The boots were tight, laced to the ankle, steel-toed and scuffed from years of use. She'd pulled her hair back into a ponytail—practical, efficient, nothing for anyone to grab onto. No heels tonight. No lace dress. No phoenix necklace.
She'd left the pendant on the dresser.
It felt wrong, walking out without it. Like leaving a piece of herself behind. But jewelry was a liability in the field—something that could catch the light, make noise, give her away. She'd learned that lesson the hard way, years ago, when a cheap bracelet had nearly gotten her killed in a warehouse outside Newark.
The pendant stayed.
She'd put it back on when she returned.
The garage was underground—a cavern of concrete and shadows, lit by fluorescent strips that hummed like dying insects. Marco was already there, leaning against the black sedan with his arms crossed and his face unreadable.
He straightened when he saw her.
"You're early."
"I'm always early."
He opened the passenger door. She slid in without a word.
The sedan smelled like leather and cigarettes and something faintly floral—air freshener, maybe, or the ghost of whoever had ridden in it last. Marco climbed into the driver's seat and started the engine. The garage door rumbled open, and then they were moving, up the ramp, through the gates, out into the night.
The city swallowed them whole.
Roxy watched the lights blur past the window—neon signs, streetlamps, the glow of apartment windows where people were eating dinner or watching TV or fucking or fighting. Normal people. Normal lives. She wondered what that felt like. She couldn't remember.
"Where are we going?"
"South side. Off Delaney." Marco's voice was flat. "Reyes has an apartment above a laundromat. He's been there for three months. Pays cash. Thinks nobody knows."
"Who else knows?"
"Just us." He glanced at her. "And whoever he's working for."
Roxy nodded. She didn't ask more questions. Questions were for people who didn't know how to listen.
They drove in silence for twenty minutes.
The neighborhood changed gradually—glass towers giving way to brick walk-ups, chain restaurants replaced by bodegas and check-cashing places. The streets got darker. The people got scarcer. By the time Marco pulled to the curb, they were in a part of the city that didn't show up on tourist maps.
The laundromat was closed. Its windows were dark, its sign flickering like it couldn't decide whether to stay on. Above it, a single light burned in a second-floor window.
Tomas Reyes was home.
Marco killed the engine. They sat in the dark, watching the building, waiting. At 8:47, a man appeared on the sidewalk—medium height, medium build, wearing a hoodie pulled up over his head. He unlocked the door beside the laundromat and disappeared inside.
The light in the second-floor window went out at 9:03.
Roxy checked her watch. She'd give it fifteen minutes.
"You have the sedative?" she asked.
Marco reached into his jacket and produced a small vial—clear liquid, no label. "Chloroform. One capful on a rag. Hold it over his mouth and nose for thirty seconds. He'll be out for an hour, maybe two."
"Maybe?"
"Depends on his weight. How much he's had to drink. Whether he's a fighter." Marco shrugged. "You'll know if it's working."
Roxy took the vial. Tucked it into her jacket pocket. She pulled the backpack onto her shoulders and reached for the door handle.
"Wait." Marco's hand caught her arm. "You've done this before?"
She looked at him. At his worried eyes, his tight jaw, the way his fingers trembled slightly against her sleeve. He was afraid. Not of her—for her. It was almost touching.
"I've done this before," she said.
"But you've never—" He stopped. Started again. "You've never taken anyone alive."
"No."
"And you're sure you can?"
Roxy smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. "I've tied people up before, Marco. I've just never had a reason to keep them breathing after."
She pulled free of his grip and stepped out of the car.
The night air was cold. It smelled like garbage and exhaust and the faint chemical tang of laundry detergent. She walked along the sidewalk with her hands in her pockets, her footsteps silent on the cracked concrete.
The building was old. Brick, three stories, fire escape rusted and rickety on the side. The laundromat occupied the ground floor, its windows covered with iron bars. Above it, two apartments—one dark, one lit.
Reyes was in the lit one.
She circled the building. The alley behind it was narrow and cluttered—dumpsters, cardboard boxes, a stray cat that hissed at her and disappeared into the shadows. She found what she was looking for on the side wall: a window, half-open, letting in the night air.
Second floor. Too high to reach from the ground.
She grabbed the fire escape ladder and pulled.
It came down with a groan—rusty, reluctant, but functional. She climbed quickly, her boots finding the rungs with practiced ease. At the second landing, she paused. Listened.
Nothing.
The window was open maybe six inches. She slid her fingers into the gap and pushed. It rose smoothly—well-oiled, recently used. Reyes liked fresh air. Or he liked being able to escape if someone came through the front door.
Either way, it worked in her favor.
She slipped inside.
The apartment was small and cluttered—takeout containers on the counter, clothes on the floor, a TV playing infomercials at low volume. The air was thick with the smell of stale beer and dirty laundry. A couch faced the TV. On the couch, a man was sleeping.
Tomas Reyes.
He was on his back, one arm thrown over his face, the other dangling off the edge of the cushion. His mouth was open. A soft snore escaped him with every exhale. He looked younger than she'd expected—mid-twenties, maybe, with a boyish face and thin wrists. Not the kind of man who skimmed twenty grand from the mob.
But you never could tell.
Roxy set her backpack down. Slowly. Carefully. She pulled out the zip ties first—two long ones, heavy-duty, the kind that wouldn't break no matter how hard he struggled. Then the duct tape. Then the gag.
She moved to the couch.
Reyes didn't stir. His breathing was deep and even, his body slack with sleep. She reached for his dangling arm and lifted it, gently, pressing it against his chest. Then she took his other arm and did the same. He murmured something—a name, maybe, or a dream—but didn't wake.
She positioned his hands together. Wrists touching. Palm to palm.
The zip tie went around them with a soft click.
She pulled it tight.
Reyes shifted. His brow furrowed. But his eyes stayed closed.
Roxy worked quickly. She grabbed his ankles, brought them up toward his wrists, folded him into a hog-tie with the second zip tie—wrists to ankles, back arched, completely immobilized. His body jerked once, twice, a reflexive response to being bound. She held him steady, one hand on his shoulder, waiting for him to settle.
He didn't wake.
She reached for the gag. The ball was red, smooth, about the size of a golf ball. She pressed it against his lips, worked it into his mouth, and fastened the straps behind his head with practiced efficiency.
His eyes snapped open.
For a moment, he didn't understand. She saw it in his face—the confusion, the disorientation, the slow realization that something was very, very wrong. Then he tried to move. Tried to scream. The gag muffled it into a strangled grunt.
Roxy leaned down. Her face was inches from his. Close enough that he could see her eyes, her smile, the cold calm in her expression.
"Greeting from the Morettis," she said.
Reyes thrashed. His body bucked against the zip ties, his muffled screams filling the small apartment. The couch creaked. A lamp wobbled on the side table and almost fell.
Roxy stepped back. Pulled out the chloroform. Soaked a rag. Knelt beside him and pressed it over his nose—the only part of his face not covered by the gag.
"Breathe," she said. "It'll be easier if you breathe."
He fought. He fought hard. But she was stronger, or he was weaker, or the sedative was faster than either of them expected. After thirty seconds, his movements slowed. After forty-five, his eyes fluttered closed. After a minute, he was limp.
She checked his pulse. Steady. Good.
She stood. Grabbed her backpack. Pulled out the duct tape and wrapped it around his ankles—extra security, just in case. Then she went to the window and looked down.
Marco was waiting in the alley. He'd moved the car closer, parked it right beneath the fire escape, trunk open.
Roxy leaned out. "Coming down."
She dragged Reyes to the window. He was heavier than he looked—dead weight, awkward angles—but she managed. She got him onto the fire escape, then down the ladder, then into Marco's waiting arms. He caught the body with a grunt and shoved it into the trunk.
Roxy climbed down after him.
"Any problems?" Marco asked.
"None."
"He didn't wake up?"
"He woke up." She pulled the backpack off her shoulders and tossed it into the back seat. "Then he went back to sleep."
Marco looked at her. His face was pale in the streetlight, his eyes wide. He opened his mouth like he was going to say something. Then he closed it. Got into the driver's seat.
Roxy climbed in beside him.
They pulled away from the curb. Behind them, the laundromat sat dark and silent. Nobody had seen anything. Nobody would know anything until morning, when the neighbors noticed the broken window and the missing man and called the police.
By then, Reyes would be somewhere else.
Somewhere nobody would ever find him.
The drive back was silent.
Marco gripped the wheel with both hands, his knuckles white. He kept glancing at her in the rearview mirror—quick, furtive looks that he probably thought she didn't notice. She noticed everything.
"You have something to say," she said.
"No."
"Liar."
He flinched. "It's just—" He stopped. Swallowed. "You were fast. In and out. No noise. No mess. Like you'd done it a hundred times."
"I have."
"Killing people, yeah. But not—" He gestured vaguely at the trunk. "Not taking them alive. Not tying them up like that. That's different."
"Is it?"
"I don't know." He shook his head. "I guess I just didn't expect you to be so... calm about it."
Roxy looked out the window. The city was blurry now—lights streaking past, buildings reduced to shadows. She thought about her brother. About the compost pile. About the knife in her hand and the way her father had watched her work, nodding approval.
"Calm isn't the right word," she said.
"Then what is?"
"Practice."
Marco didn't ask any more questions.
They pulled through the gates of the Moretti estate at 10:47. The house was lit up like a cathedral—every window glowing, every light burning. Someone was waiting for them.
Marco parked in the garage. Popped the trunk.
Reyes was still unconscious. His face was slack, his breathing shallow. He looked smaller now, somehow. Less like a threat.
"Where do we take him?" Marco asked.
Roxy had been wondering the same thing. She'd assumed there was a basement, a cellar, somewhere soundproof and private where interrogations happened. But she'd never seen it.
"Depends." She looked at Marco. "Where does Damien do his interrogations?"
Marco's face tightened. "You don't want to know."
"I'm asking."
He hesitated. Then he jerked his head toward the back of the garage. "There's a door. Behind the boiler. Leads to a lower level. That's where he—" He stopped.
"That's where he kills people," Roxy said.
"That's where he asks questions."
"Same thing."
She grabbed Reyes by the ankles and dragged him out of the trunk. Marco grabbed his arms. Together, they carried him through the garage, past the boiler, through a heavy steel door that opened onto a narrow staircase.
The stairs went down.
The air got colder. Danker. The walls were concrete, stained with something dark that Roxy didn't want to examine too closely. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in a sickly green glow.
At the bottom of the stairs, a corridor stretched into darkness. Along the corridor were doors—three of them, all heavy, all closed. Marco stopped at the first one and pushed it open.
Inside was a room.
A single chair. A metal table. A drain in the center of the floor. Chains bolted to the walls. It was clean—surgically clean—but the smell of bleach couldn't quite hide the other smell underneath. Something metallic. Something old.
Roxy dropped Reyes onto the floor.
"Tell Damien he's here," she said.
Marco nodded. He looked relieved to be leaving.
She heard his footsteps retreat up the stairs. The door at the top of the landing closed with a thud. And then she was alone, standing in a room designed for pain, with a man at her feet who had no idea what was coming.
She crouched beside Reyes. Checked his pulse. Still steady. Still alive.
For now.
She didn't know how long she waited. There was no clock in the room, no way to measure time passing. She sat against the wall with her knees drawn up and her eyes on the door and her mind carefully, deliberately blank.
At some point, she heard footsteps on the stairs.
Heavy. Measured. Two sets, maybe three.
The door opened.
Damien walked in.
He was dressed in black—suit, shirt, tie, all of it so dark it seemed to absorb the light. His face was unreadable. His eyes found hers immediately, and something passed between them—something she couldn't name.
Behind him, Valentina.
She was wearing red again. A dress, long and flowing, with a neckline that plunged nearly to her navel. Her hair was down, loose around her shoulders. She looked like she'd just come from a cocktail party. She probably had.
"Well," Valentina said, looking at Reyes. "He's smaller than I expected."
"Everyone is," Roxy said.
Valentina's mouth curved. She stepped past her husband and circled the room, her heels clicking against the concrete. When she reached Reyes, she crouched down and studied his face—the same way Roxy had, earlier, in the apartment.
"He's got a wedding ring," she said.
Roxy hadn't noticed. She looked—and yes, there it was. A thin gold band on his left hand.
"Does that matter?"
"Only that he'll have something to lose." Valentina straightened. "Pain is more effective when the subject has something to go home to."
She said it like she was discussing the weather.
Roxy looked at Damien. He hadn't moved from the doorway. His eyes were on her, not Reyes—steady, assessing, like he was waiting for something.
"You watched," Roxy said.
"I had Marco on the phone. He described it."
"Did he?"
"He said you were efficient. Clean. No hesitation."
"That's me."
Damien walked toward her. At the table, he stopped. His hand reached out—two fingers, gentle—and touched her chin. Tilted her face up.
"You're not hurt."
"I'm not."
"You're not even breathing hard."
"I told you. I've done this before."
He studied her. Those cold eyes, that unreadable face. Then his hand dropped. He turned to Reyes, still sprawled on the floor, still unconscious, still completely unaware of the nightmare he'd woken into.
"Wake him up," he said.
Valentina produced a small vial from somewhere—smelling salts—and knelt beside Reyes. She uncapped it and held it under his nose.
His eyes flew open.
He tried to scream. The gag caught it. Tried to move. The zip ties held. His body convulsed, thrashing against the restraints, his muffled cries filling the room like the sound of an animal in a trap.
Damien crouched down. His face was calm. His voice was soft. Almost gentle.
"Tomas," he said. "Tomas, look at me."
Reyes went still. His eyes found Damien's, and something in them changed. Terror. Recognition. The understanding that he was in the presence of the man he'd been stealing from.
"You know who I am."
Reyes nodded frantically. His breathing was ragged through the gag.
"Good." Damien reached out and removed the gag—gently, almost tenderly, like he was unwrapping a gift. Reyes gasped for air, his mouth working, but Damien held up a hand.
"Don't scream," he said. "If you scream, I'll put the gag back in. And then I'll cut off a finger. Do you understand?"
Reyes nodded again. Tears were streaming down his face.
"Good. Now." Damien stood. "You've been stealing from me, Tomas. Twenty thousand dollars over six months. I want to know who else is involved."
"I—I don't—"
"Don't lie to me."
"I'm not lying! I swear, I wasn't—I was just—"
"Just what?"
Reyes swallowed. His eyes darted around the room—to Valentina, to Roxy, to the door—looking for escape. There was none.
"I was just taking a little," he whispered. "A little at a time. I thought—I thought nobody would notice."
"I noticed."
"I know. I know, and I'm sorry. Please. I'll pay it back. I'll do anything—"
"Who else?"
"What?"
"Someone else knows. Someone else helped you. You don't have the brains to skim from me on your own." Damien stepped closer. "Who's your partner?"
Reyes was shaking. "I don't—there's no—"
"The name, Tomas."
"I can't—"
Damien sighed. He looked at Roxy.
She understood.
She walked to the table. The ropes were there—hers, still coiled in her backpack. She took them out, tested their weight, and turned to Reyes.
His eyes went wide.
"Please," he whispered. "Please, don't—"
Roxy didn't answer. She tied one end of the rope to the chair and the other end around Reyes's throat—not tight enough to strangle, just tight enough to remind him it was there.
"One name," she said. "That's all we need."
Reyes looked at her. At her calm face, her steady hands, the complete absence of mercy in her eyes. Whatever he saw there broke something inside him.
"Vicente," he choked out. "Vicente Cruz. He's the one who—he told me how to do it. He said the Morettis would never notice. He said—"
Damien held up a hand. Reyes stopped.
"Vicente Cruz," Damien repeated. "That's not possible."
"I swear. I swear on my mother's grave. He came to me. He said he had a plan. He said—"
"Vicente Cruz has been dead for three years."
The room went very quiet.
Reyes stared at him. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"No," he whispered. "No, that's not—he's not—I saw him. Last week. He was—"
"Valentina."
She stepped forward. Her face was tight, her eyes hard. "I went to his funeral," she said. "I watched them lower the coffin into the ground. He's dead."
"I don't understand." Reyes was crying now, openly sobbing. "I don't understand. He was there. He was real. He sat at my kitchen table and ate my food and told me—"
The door at the top of the stairs opened.
Everyone turned.
Marco stood in the doorway. His face was pale—paler than usual, pale as paper. His hands were shaking.
"Boss," he said. "There's something you need to see."
Damien didn't move. "What?"
"It's—" Marco swallowed. "It's outside. The gatehouse. There's a package."
"A package?"
"With a note." Marco's voice cracked. "It's from Vicente Cruz."
The silence turned to ice.
Damien looked at Valentina. Valentina looked at Roxy. Roxy looked at Reyes, still tied to the chair, still sobbing, still swearing that he'd seen a dead man at his kitchen table.
And somewhere above them, the doorbell rang.