Twisted Cravings (The Camorra Chronicles, #6)(69)

It wasn’t. I recognized him and the Falcones had made sure he was the right person. There would be no mistakes, no regret, no mercy.

I glanced at Adamo and gave a short nod. Adamo unpacked his laptop and set it up in front of the man. “Watch it closely,” Adamo said, fury tinging his voice. Violence twisted his expression. I took strange consolation in the realization that even if I’d fail, Adamo would be there to do what I couldn’t.

The video began and the man’s eyes widened with surprise. I stepped back, allowed him to watch the videos of us. On occasion, eagerness flickered in his eyes and my stomach tightened at his obvious excitement over what he’d done to me many years ago. I wanted to believe that people could change, that they could better themselves, but so far Adamo’s and my experiences proved the opposite. Adamo leaned against the wall to the man’s right with balled fists. It was obvious how difficult it was for him to hold himself back. Every time my abuser showed signs of enjoyment, Adamo’s body rocked forward.

I turned the video off when I couldn’t bear another second. I allowed myself a few deep breaths to steal myself, to lock little Katinka away deep inside my mind before I confronted my past tormentor. “Do you remember me now?”

His gaze snapped up to mine. He didn’t say anything but the nervous back and forth of his eyes told me he was trying to think of an excuse. I lifted the knife. He began struggling against his restraints again and screamed at the top of his lungs for help. I flinched at the volume, goosebumps rising on my skin. I stepped closer and held the knife right in front of his face. “Stop screaming,” I whispered harshly. My voice wasn’t as strong and threatening as I wanted it to be.

The man didn’t stop. He struggled even harder, almost topping over backwards with the chair Adamo had tied him to. “Shut up,” I rasped.

The man didn’t even seem to hear me. I was air for him. I slanted a look at Adamo. He knew how to handle situations like this. I couldn’t ask for help, my tongue too heavy, and luckily, I didn’t have to. Adamo pushed away from the wall and pulled his second knife. In two long steps he appeared beside me, grabbed the man’s hair and pressed the blade against his throat. “Shut up, or I’ll cut off your fucking tongue,” he snarled, sounding so terrifying that even my body involuntarily leaned away from him for a moment.



Adamo relished in what he did. His eyes held the same euphoric rush I remembered from taking drugs. I wondered if his fall would be as steep once the rush waned off. I remembered the bleak, depressing hours afterward, and the increasing yearning for the next fix. When would Adamo need his next fix?

Adamo’s gaze slanted to me, frantic, eager, hungry. “He’s yours.” Mine.

Mine to judge. To torture. To kill.

I lifted the knife, scanned the sharp blade. Holding my breath, I jabbed the knife into his thigh. My eyes widened, my knuckles turning white around the handle, shocked by my own actions. The man cried out harshly, eyes wide and agonized. Blood soaked the fabric around the blade, which was still buried inside his leg.

“Twist it,” Adamo murmured, voice compelling.

I tightened my hold but didn’t move. Adamo covered my hand with his.

“I can help.”

I nodded. He guided my hand, turning the blade clockwise.

The screams escalated, buried themselves in my head and raised goosebumps. My body revolted against my actions. I shook my head and Adamo released my hand. I jerked it away from the knife.



“Do you want me to do it?” Adamo asked.

I took a step back. I didn’t look at number two, only at the man I was falling for more every day. He wanted to help me, but beyond that he thirsted for the violence. He wanted this, needed this, maybe as much as I did.

“Yes,” I whispered.

Adamo fixed number two with a bone-chilling look. A hunter ready to tear into his prey. Adamo ripped the knife out of number two’s leg before he sliced it across his abdomen, creating a shallow cut. Painful but not lethal.

I backed away, and watched, fascinated and terrified by Adamo, by his focus, his eagerness, his skill.

I couldn’t help but wonder if I was the reason for the awakening of his bloodlust, if my request had broken through his walls and unleashed an unstoppable hunger.

“Adamo,” I whispered eventually. He dropped the knife, his eyes darting to me. It took a heartbeat before they really saw me.

“He’s yours now,” he said in a raspy voice.

I nodded and grasped the gun. Pulling the trigger was easy, and strangely enough felt almost like an act of mercy.





The shot rang in the dirty basement, followed by utter silence. I breathed harshly, trying to come down from my euphoric high. My pulse was pounding wildly in my veins and I felt almost invincible and overall: exhilaratingly alive. Slowly I became aware of Dinara’s presence again. She stood a few feet from me. She’d watched everything without a word, every second of me losing control. I must have looked insane as I’d lost myself in the blood revelry. Fuck. I couldn’t believe I’d let it consume me like that.

I met Dinara’s gaze, expecting the worst: disgust and maybe even fear, but I found only realization and the hint of shock. Dinara lowered the gun and put it back into the bag with weapons. I sat back on my haunches, wondering if I should explain myself. But what could I say to justify my actions? I was a twisted fuck. A bitter smile twisted my lips as I met Dinara’s beautiful eyes. “One monster killing another, a terrifying sight, hmm?”