Page 52 of His Puppet
Her face blanches, and her shoulders sag. That fear that was missing earlier is suddenly there, and I narrow my eyes in confusion.
“So, you really did it?” she asks, her voice low like she’s asking for a secret. “You… You like, beheaded them?”
I want to hide my amusement, treat this as seriously as it seems to be for her, but I can’t. I chuckle and lean back, crossing my arms over my chest. “You doubted that?”
She breaks eye contact and tucks a strand of hair behind her ears. She doesn’t respond, and my amusement begins to fall.
“They were crooked cops, Emily, and this was twelve years ago. Who gives a shit?”
“That’s not really the point.”
“What is?”
She doesn’t say anything, and just as I’m about to speak again, if for no other reason than to fill the silence, she looks back at me. “The point is, knowing you’re capable of that level of depravity is fucking terrifying.”
For some reason, this bothers me. My amusement drains, and my jaw tics. I take my glass and pound back the rest of the water while sitting up straight.
This is not something I haven’t talked about. The first time was twelve years ago with Saul Gruco, the don at the time and Settimo’s father. I’d cried to him. Begged for his forgiveness. Pledged my loyalty. He never even blinked while I spilled my guts to him, and when I was finished, he looked at me with a pride I’d never seen from my own father. He embraced me, along with all my faults, and he made me the man I am today. The one whom grown men whisper about and wouldn’t dare cross. The one who would gladly stick my neck underneath a guillotine for the familia.
I’ve embraced this man, prided myself for who I’ve become and everything I’ve worked to achieve. I’ve managed to keep everything before ‘Blade’ out of my mind, locked safely away, tightly enough I thought it was gone, up until right now. A sliver of pain pierces my mind, and bitterness follows it.
“They murdered my father,” I say, my voice flat and cold. “What level of depravity is suitable for that kind of revenge?”
Emily doesn’t answer. She stares at the floor and bites her lip.
With a breath, I push aside the bitterness and lock the chest back up, nice and tight.
“It doesn’t even make sense for you to be afraid of me,” I say, managing to lighten my tone. “If I was going to hurt you, I would’ve done it by now. Hell, I brought you to my dead father’s apartment to fuck you.” I chuckle. “Obviously, my bosses are right. I have a soft spot for you.”
She still doesn’t respond, and her face doesn’t relax. If anything, she looks even more afraid.
“Emily,” I say, hoping she’ll look at me. She doesn’t. “I am not going to hurt you.” I enunciate each word, as if that’ll help.
“No matter what?” she asks.
I almost respond. Almost assure her for the fourth time. But something in her voice stops me. There’s more than fear there, and it sounds a hell of a lot like skepticism. Something’s off.
“What if I told you I was connected to law enforcement somehow?”
My chest puffs, almost as if bracing for a physical threat, and I study Emily, my eyes scanning the smooth contours of her face.
“How?” I ask, dread forming in my gut.
I don’t want to kill this girl. Or even hurt her. She’s too interesting to me, too, at the risk of sounding cheesy, special. I want to use her, fuck her, climb into her mind and explore her, but not hurt her.
“Answer me first.”
I keep my mouth shut while considering it. Whatever it is, Lorenzo will find out. He probably already has, and if there’s one thing I can be sure of, it’s that she’s better off telling me before he does.
“Even if you’re connected to law enforcement, I won’t hurt you,” I say, hoping it isn’t a lie.
She takes a shaky breath, and her fear is all of a sudden making sense. The fake name. The refusal to tell me who she is or who she’s running from.
She takes too long to speak, and I prod her. “Is Emily Wilson your real name?”
She nods.
Good. At least she didn’t lie again.