Celt. (Den of Mercenaries #2)(52)

There was a pause before an accented voice said, “Suite 710, Madison Place. One hour. The Kingmaker is waiting.”

Kyrnon didn’t even get the chance to process that it was the Kingmaker’s assistant calling him before the call was dropped and he was squeezing his phone so hard he was afraid it would break.

Three-thirty in the morning …

Arsehole.

Dragging himself out of bed, he grabbed the same jeans he had discarded earlier, pulling them on swiftly, though careful to make as little noise as possible so as not to wake Amber, who was still slumbering peacefully in his bed. Finding a shirt and pulling that on next, he used the guest bathroom before heading out the door and climbing onto his bike.

Plugging the address into his phone, he listened to the directions come through the speakers in his helmet as he took off, cruising through the quiet and almost barren streets.

He’d been expecting a hotel, or someplace pretentious that only people like the Kingmaker liked to stay in, but Kyrnon found himself at an office building in the Bronx, one that was currently under maintenance, judging from the signs and visible beams on the building.

Parking his bike, he easily slipped past the chain-link fence—the padlock having already been cut and left on the rubble nearby—crossing the short distance to what would eventually be the front doors of the building.

Entering the lift that was very much like the one in his loft, Kyrnon rode it up, digging his hands into his pockets as he listened to the soft hum of gears turning before a bell sounded and he stopped.

Up on the seventh floor, he could see faint light reflecting off the plastic tarps that covered the floor and the walls. And while he could understand the need for them considering how much construction still needed to be completed, it was the streak of blood, as though someone had been dragged across the floor that grabbed his attention.

Following the trail, he walked through three rooms before he finally reached the dead man on the floor … or what he suspected was a man. His face had been beaten to a pulp, his naked body a mess of bruises and wounds.

Someone had tortured the hell out of him.

Off to the side, his face shielded by shadows, the Kingmaker said, “You know … I’ve never been overly fond of those that make mistakes. Mistakes are what get you killed after all.” He shifted forward, his hands clasped behind his back as his unwavering stare landed on Kyrnon. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

Had it come from someone else, Kyrnon might have considered answering, but he was in no mood to play word games with a man that excelled at them. It was late—or early depending on how one looked at it—and he was already ready to get home and back in his bed with Amber.

“What were you trying to get out of him?” Kyrnon asked, looking back to the body at his feet.

Beneath the blood, bruises, and swelling, he thought the man looked … familiar. But he couldn’t be sure, and identification would be nearly impossible since the man’s hands and feet were missing.

Not to mention the frozen scream reflected on his face made it clear that the man’s teeth had all been removed as well.

Fucking grisly.

“This isn’t my work,” the Kingmaker said casually, not moved in the slightest by the violence they were both looking upon. As he came closer, he looked at the body like it was his first time seeing it. “I wouldn’t have left a body behind.”

“Why am I here?” Kyrnon asked instead.

“I already told you,” the Kingmaker said with a blink. “You made a mistake.”

“What mistake?”

As far as Kyrnon was concerned, his last job had been done with very little fuss when it came down to it. Even after receiving his last payment from the Kingmaker after he delivered L’amant Flétrie, he still double-checked, making sure that no word had spread about the painting’s theft.

The Kingmaker gestured to the dead man. “You’re looking at it.”

This was his mistake? “I don’t even know who this is.”

And he was pretty sure that had he tortured someone to this extent, he would have remembered it.

“Gabriel Monte.”

Shite.

He might not have known what his mistake was just yet, but he did know that the Kingmaker was right.

Somewhere, he had made a mistake.

“Not too long after you brought me my painting, another L’amant Flétrie was sold. Surprising, isn’t it—considering, I have the original.”

That could only mean that Gabriel had chosen to fleece the one Amber had painted as the real thing.

Shite. That wasn’t good.

And that explained why he hadn’t heard anything. There was no word on the theft because had Gabriel mentioned one, he wouldn’t have been able to move the forgery. He should have paid closer attention, looked into it further when nothing had come up.

“Who was the buyer?” Kyrnon asked, crouching down to get a better look at the body.

With as much death as he had seen in the world, the sight of Gabriel’s mutilated corpse did nothing for him. He merely scanned the wounds, looking for any signatures that might have been left behind.

Everyone left their own distinct mark.

“I haven’t a single idea.”

Kyrnon looked to him and didn’t doubt for a second that the Kingmaker knew exactly who had done this. “What’s your game? Eh? While you f*ck about, we take care of whatever petty grievances you throw at us?”