Never Have an Outlaw's Baby (Deadly Pistols MC #3)(108)

“Go ahead and try,” I spat.

He stood up, circling me at a distance, the same mischievous sparkle in his baby blues that I recognized in Anton. “You're a fighter. I like that. I respect it. You would've gotten off easy with me. I'm the more tender one, or so the ladies say. My brother's going to f*ck you sooner or later, you know.”

“Yeah? Not you?” It felt good to taunt him, dangerous as it was.

He growled, shook his head, and widened the distance between us. It looked like he couldn't decide whether to make good on his crude threat or get the hell away from me. I swallowed hard, praying he'd finally leave me alone.

“I like rough and hard to get like any red blooded man. But I'm not about to ruin Anton's little prize before he gets a crack at it. We're brothers, after all. What's his is his. I was just having my fun.”

I stuck my tongue out. So risky to keep pressing him, but he was backing off. I couldn't resist. I'd officially had it up to here with these intrusions, all the sadistic extras that came with being Anton Ivankov's hostage.

“Stay here like a naughty devotchka then. Anton always liked them beautiful and completely at his mercy.” I watched him fish a silky red handkerchief out of his pocket and press it to the scratch I'd left on his cheek, soaking up the blood. “You're very lucky he's got big plans for you, babe. If it was up to me and Daniel, you'd be dead. We can't see the sense in sparing any Ligiotti.”

He pointed at the box and turned. Then he threw the door open and slammed it behind him, leaving me to collapse, grabbing my knees, listening to the lock click shut behind him.

When I'd caught my breath, I crawled to the black box. It opened easily enough. There was something rectangular and electronic inside, a brand new tablet. Except it wasn't packaged like anything I'd ever seen before.

I dragged it out of its container and found a little note taped to the back. The big, sharp script could only belong to Anton, a penmanship as imposing as the rest of him.

You've got a lot of questions, and I'll be back to answer them soon. Until then, do your own research. Find out everything you can. Don't take my word for it. And don't you f*cking think about calling for help – it's read only. Nothing gets past this house's encryption. – A. Ivankov

I shrugged and complied. It wasn't like I had anything better to do, and how the hell could I help it when he'd dropped such a juicy invitation in front of me?

I sat on the bed with the little device, wondering if the encryption was really as tight as he'd claimed.

Yup. Email, apps, and all the chat sites I knew were off limits. The browser wouldn't let me move through the web fluidly. There seemed to be a list of bookmarks, and nothing else.

The first page I pulled up was an old profile on a fetish site. The face belonged to Michael Wilkins, the investment banker killed in the attack. I recognized his smug face from the obituaries I'd read for my piece.

I only browsed a few lines of his interests. It was enough.

Not a f*cking game...real pain...I like to leave permanent marks.

Another page opened up a large PDF. It was an account statement from a dead city councilman with monstrous amounts marked gratuity for the Club Duce. The last transaction was just an hour or two before the bombing, about what you'd expect a multi-millionaire to tip for exceptional service.

On and on the evidence ran.

Sick profiles. Financials he'd gotten by some black magic. A carefully suppressed draft of a story that was never published in a major paper about one of the dead businessmen breaking his wife's jaw when she confronted him about his depraved affairs. The reporter's boss was on the dead man's payroll.

Over and over, I saw GIOULIO LIGIOTTI in big letters whenever the owning party was named for Club Duce. Anton left it there, as if to shove it in my face, constant reminders saying, you see this shit, babe? You see who's responsible? Fucking look!

Oh, I did. I saw it all.

I took the longest, harshest look I could until my eyes wouldn't work anymore and my fingers went numb on the little device. Then I picked it up, stood on the bed, and hurled it through the opening in the curtain.

The thing went flying towards the vanity and smashed with a clatter like fireworks. I collapsed, clawing at my face, sick to death and shaking.

I was beyond f*cked. Only, I didn't know who to blame. I didn't know whether I should hate my own dirty blood or the bastard who'd made me think my Uncle was the filthiest man on earth. Maybe both.

The truth wasn't necessarily any clearer. There were a million ways he could've doctored everything on the screen.

The man seized me, and he was holding me prisoner right now, after all. How far would he really go to get his way, to get me to help him destroy the only man who'd ever offered me his protective hand?

I was still wondering when I crashed, exhausted, stuffing my face in the pillow to dry my hot tears.

At some point, I must've fallen asleep. Next thing I heard was the door swinging open. I sat up in the darkness. Didn't need to make out the dark silhouette near the entrance to know who it was.

A piece of busted plastic from the tablet crunched under one of his shoes. He stopped, ground his foot into the tile, and whistled.

I glared as he looked at me through the dimness, folding his arms. “Fucking shit, babe. I knew you'd get upset when I confronted you with what was on that thing...never knew you were the smashing type.”