Threads That Bind Us (Syndicate of Fate Book 1)

13. Charlie

At first I thought I’d won this little exchange. Sure, I might be bringing Gwen into the family business a little early here, but it seemed like an easy concession if I got to have her under my roof sooner. She’d eventually learn that her taste for violence is what drew me to her.

As I watch her walk down the stairs behind the glass door, I realize I was very, very wrong. Because the last time I watched her kill someone, I could barely contain my attraction to her. And now I’m about to witness it again, and I can’t fucking touch her.

I don’t pray—what god would listen? But I mutter a request for strength to the universe as Gwen hits the landing. I told her to dress comfortably, in clothes she didn’t mind incinerating. Hair pulled back, in a form-fitting, long-sleeved shirt and jeans, she looks like she could be running errands. Like joining me in bleeding my enemies dry is almost domestic. I can’t seem to remove my hand from over my mouth.

“Hi,” she says simply as I open the door for her, her breath puffing in front of her lips. Her cheeks flush from the cold.

Or maybe the flush is from something else entirely. I wish I was imagining the way her eyes travel down my frame and back up, the hint of something carnal in them. It’s fuel to the spark lit between us, and I try my best to dampen it as I take her arm and lead her carefully to the car.

I want nothing more than to lean into the feeling, stoke the flame, see if it consumes her the way it does me. But even if we share a mutual attraction, I can’t push. I’ll never know if she’s only reciprocating because she believes she has to in order to take care of Ana. And even if, somehow, I could be certain, she’d never want the version of me I crave to be around her. Not with what she’s about to witness.

The drive to the farm is long and quiet. Dusk is settling over the treetops, pinks and purples flashing over Gwen’s skin as she leans back against the headrest, staring at the world whipping by. I still can’t tell if she’s nervous, but I know she’ll talk when she’s ready.

There’s no music, but she doesn’t seem to mind, and neither do I. I love the sound of the road under my tires, the soft hum lulling me into imagining what it would be like to drive down these roads on my motorcycle, with Gwen wrapped around me.

That image keeps me occupied until we’re finally pulling through the gates of the farm. Gwen perks up, her eyes wide as we make our way up the winding dirt road. I feel her gaze on the side of my face when the pigs come into view, and I keep my eyes forward despite the smile pulling at my lips.

Emily’s car is parked near the front door, sleek, clean, and out of place against the rustic setting. When she offered to be here for Gwen’s first introduction to our work, I was hesitant. I wanted this moment to be between the two of us, to be intimate. But Emily was right—I’m not always the most self-aware when I become this version of myself, and I don’t want to scare Gwen.

Once the engine is off, I turn toward her. She’s got her arms crossed under her chest, nails digging her into her own skin. She’s avoiding my gaze, and that just won’t do anymore.

“Gwen,” I say softly, breaking the bubble of silence we created. She takes a steadying breath through her nose and turns to me, her jaw clenched and her eyes guarded. “Emily, my cousin, will be inside, and she’s going to help me explain some things. Then you and I will go downstairs.” I reach out and grab her hand, smoothing my fingers over the indents she’s made in her arm with her nails. “At any point, you can go upstairs. There is no shame in not being able to handle what’s about to happen. Torturing someone is very different from what you experienced last summer. It takes longer and it’s exhausting, physically and psychologically.” I brush my thumb over her hand and her eyes flicker down to the motion before meeting mine again.

“I understand,” she says, swallowing hard.

Her guard is still up as I search her expression, and I haven’t yet learned how to read her well enough to unearth what she’s hiding. I want to dig, but I have to trust her to know her own limits, or to be willing to learn them.

I nod, unbuckle my seatbelt, and slip out of the car, opening her door before she can do it herself. She follows me into the main house, our footsteps disguised by the distant noise of hungry pigs.

Emily’s sitting on the old couch, her back against the armrest and her feet propped up on the cushions. Unsurprisingly, her laptop sits open on her thighs, and she only looks up when the door closes behind us.

“Holy shit, you actually brought her,” Emily says, closing the screen and standing. She’s barefoot and in men’s workout clothes—her standard attire for when she’s holed up researching—and she stretches before making her way across the room.

“Gwen, this is Emily, my least favorite and smartest cousin,” I introduce as Emily sizes her up. I don’t know why I expected Gwen to cower at all, but her spine is steel and her expression is unreadable as she assesses Emily.

“And you’re Gwen, the magical murderer,” Emily says, her dry humor landing only for her. There was no getting around telling her about Gwen’s escapade with Kenzie’s ex, and now she’s taken to some creative nicknames. “Talk about coincidence, huh?”

“Still not convinced he didn’t stalk me for six months,” Gwen barbs back, and Emily’s eyes crinkle at the corner as she smiles.

“Not his style,” she turns back to the couch and plops down unceremoniously, opening her laptop back up. “He likes to believe the universe speaks to him,” she taunts, wiggling her fingers in the air with her eyes locked on the screen.

“I do not believe the universe speaks to me,” I argue, gesturing for Gwen to sit on the loveseat across from Emily as I take the armchair. “I just think everything happens for a reason.”

“Sure, whatever,” Emily waves me off, uninterested in a conversation in which she knows she can’t change my mind. “Do we want to talk about our friend downstairs?”

Gwen shifts forward, her posture tense but not fearful. I watch her out of the corner of my eye as I motion for Emily to continue.

“Kayden Thorne, which is a fucking crime of a name, by the way,” she recites, lazily scrolling her trackpad. “Twenty-six, American born, living in Mogilev, Belarus, and doing low-level intelligence gathering under Zia Gia’s team. He was recruited two years ago after his dad helped Gia with some issue with imports in southern California. Suspect that he got swayed by Konstantin’s team of arms runners about four months before Lucia’s attack. I don’t think he’s high enough up in Konstantin’s organization to know anything useful, but it would be nice to know who approached him, if you can get that out of him.” She flicks her eyes up to Gwen, who doesn’t look like she’s breathing, and back down at her computer. “I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t be able to.”

I crack my neck, the familiar feeling of calm concentration creeping into my veins. I glance at Gwen, who”s already got her head tilted in my direction. Her brows are slightly furrowed, but she just looks a little confused.

“Gia is my other cousin, Beatrice’s, mother, and Lucia is mine. We’re fairly certain that Konstantin’s team is responsible for her attack, but we have no idea how he knew she would be in Ankara. Clara, my sister, is working on a top down approach with the Russians back in Trani, but we’re trying to catch small fish and see what they can give us.”

It’s so natural, this feeling. Like slipping into your most worn jacket. Without conscious direction, I’m already positioning slices and blows in my mind. Maybe Emily’s right, and we’ll only confirm his involvement with the Russian arms dealers who’ve been trying to eradicate The Syndicate since we cut off their North American arm nearly a decade ago. But the most seemingly insignificant information could have outstated impact. I need to know what he told them, so I can find our weaknesses and seal them like a tomb.

Emily clears her throat, and I realize I’ve been staring at Gwen. I still can’t sense fear from her, but her eyes are mapping my face like she doesn’t fully recognize it.

“How did you find out he had flipped to the Russians?” Gwen asks, shifting her gaze to Emily.

For what it’s worth, Emily doesn’t take Gwen’s question as an insult to her intelligence gathering. She likes people who probe, because she likes to probe.

“He missed a few check-ins, and his reporting became more and more vague,” Emily replies, clicking through something at a rapid rate. “He was supposed to be working some leads we had on fake advertisements for models and actresses in eastern Europe that end up being trafficking hooks. We were initially concerned that he got turned into a customer by a ring, but then we started tracking him leaving the country, and pieces started to fall into place. We got confirmation from our team in St. Petersburg last week.”

Gwen rests her elbows on her knees and asks more questions, and I observe her. The resolve that feels manufactured in her eyes. The way her fingertips whiten from how tightly she clasps her hands.

I remember wishing I could see her eyes in that alley, but now I’m not sure it would have made a difference. Because even after weeks of watching her emotions written plainly on her face, I still can’t read her right now.

“How long until his sedation wears off?” I ask when their conversation lulls, rolling my fingers against the arm of the chair.

Gwen’s watching me again, and it puts me on edge. I know this is who I am, and I want to see if she can handle it, but something in my chest rages against her seeing me like this. It will only reinforce the idea that this is the core of who I am—controlled and manipulative.

But I’ve backed myself into this corner.

“He should be up any minute now,” she replies, kicking her feet up on the coffee table. “He’s a big dude, but I don’t think Zane gave him the full dose when he got him off the plane.”

I stand up, cracking my neck again, a habit I should quit. Gwen glances between me and Emily, a little more hesitant as she rises.

“You’re not coming down too?” she asks my cousin, who snorts.

“Research and development is more my lane. Plus, I’m not patient enough for Charlie’s line of work. I prefer a more direct approach.” She glances up and meets my gaze, a challenge there. “He’s got this handled.”

Since we were kids, Emily’s never questioned my abilities. She’s pushed me to my limits, made me better. But the way she’s looking at me right now, it’s like she doesn’t believe for a moment I have this handled.

But she’s wrong.

“Stay behind me as we go down the stairs. There’s a table in the far corner of the room that you can observe from. If you’d like a closer look, let me know before you approach.” My instructions to Gwen are harsh and tactical, but this is the reality of the job.

Gwen nods, even though her eyebrows have shot into her hairline again. I turn toward the cellar door, and I hear Emily whisper behind me.

“Do what feels natural. That’s how he learned, even if he’s forgotten.”

The words sting a little, but I compartmentalize them like I do everything else. My concern for my mother’s health. The sound of the refrigerator humming in the background. My lust for Gwen. Every stimulus, internal and external, falls neatly into a file, tucked away to be reopened after I leave this house.

We make our way past two locked doors and a railless staircase, and I keep close track of Gwen behind me as I open the door.

Kayden is very much awake. The room is soundproof, but as soon as I crack the door, his muffled screams fill the space. He’s sweating, but he hasn’t pissed himself, which is a minor miracle.

I can feel Gwen like a tether is attached between us. I don’t turn to watch her, but I know she goes to stand at the table like I told her. Kayden’s eyes flicker back and forth between us.

“Good evening, Kayden,” I say calmly, rolling up the sleeves of my shirt. “I hope your flight was restful.”

He starts screaming again, and I doubt the words would be clear even without the gag. His fear is like a noxious gas, spreading through the room and permeating my nervous system. I hate the metaphor of predator and prey, but it’s fitting, the way my subconscious starts cataloging his weaknesses.

It’s unlikely he’s dedicated enough to Konstantin’s team that anything more than a little roughing up will be necessary. But I have a student today.

“I’m sure you won’t mind,” I say over his screaming, nodding my head back to Gwen without looking at her. I don’t know why, but I can’t. “We’re using tonight as a learning opportunity for a friend. You’re amenable to that, aren’t you?”

Spit is dripping down his chin, his muscles bulging against the restraints holding him to the chair bolted to the floor. He has his eyes locked on Gwen, and his noises turn pleading, like he’s begging for her to release him. My blood simmers under my skin.

“See, I knew you’d be understanding,” I say as I reach out and grab his chin, forcing him to look at me. “I hear we have a lot to talk about. I do hope you’ll be forthcoming.”

Terror still pulses through him, but anger, too. I’ve found that people don’t just go through the stages of grief when someone they care for dies, but when they know their life is about to end as well. He’s not yet accepted his own impending demise, and that works in my favor. He’ll offer more in exchange for a life he can no longer bargain with.

I hold his chin through his thrashing, his attempts to break free, but Zane has perfected this particular art. I wouldn’t have brought Gwen down here if I thought for a moment our victim could get loose from his restraints.

“Now, I’m going to take out this unseemly gag, and we’re going to talk a little bit about what you told Konstantin’s men,” I say calmly, wiping his spit from my fingers onto the side of his face. He doesn’t look shocked—it’s impossible that he doesn’t know who I am and why he’s here—but his expression hardens a bit. “If you’re forthcoming, I’m sure this will be a pleasant exchange.”

I hear Gwen shift behind me, but I still can’t force myself to look at her. Am I afraid of what I’ll see in her eyes, or what she’ll see in mine?

I reach behind Kayden’s head and untie the cloth gag, and immediately he’s yelling and thrashing again. I roll my eyes, tossing the fabric into the corner of the room and stepping away to let him wear himself out. He’s screaming for help, for me to fuck off, that he didn’t fucking do anything, his voice quickly growing strained.

“It’s instinctual for them to rebel like this, especially if they haven’t received any training to the contrary.” I raise my voice so Gwen can hear me without taking my eyes off Kayden. I hear her shift again, but don’t feel her come any closer. “Generally, they wear themselves out in a few minutes, but the body will sometimes produce intermittent bursts of adrenaline throughout the process, which is something to keep in mind if you ever decide to loosen a victim’s restraints.”

She only hums in response, but something about the sound of her voice settles in my mind. It doesn’t draw me out of the moment, but acts like a window into a world outside this room. I’ve killed with others before—family members, Zane, the occasional external partner or extended Syndicate member—but I’ve never experienced this sensation.

I place the question of why in another little compartment and file it away, even if I continue to bask in the small comfort I’ve found with her here.

As Kayden’s struggling becomes less enthusiastic, I move so I’m directly in front of him and squat down so we’re eye level with each other.

“Okay, Kayden. Why don’t we start easy? Who from Konstantin’s team approached you in Belarus?” I ask, my tone almost patronizing.

“Man, go fuck yourself,” he spits, breathing heavily from exerting himself with useless struggling. I roll my eyes.

“That is not what I’d call forthcoming,” I say, patting him on the side of the face firmly. He flinches away at the touch, and I can’t help but laugh. “Let’s try that one more time, yes? Who approached you?”

“I’m not telling you jack fucking shit,” he sneers.

Cocking my head at him, I track his expression, his breathing, the set of his jaw. I realize he’s not refusing because of his dedication to Konstantin, but because of pride. This exchange has bruised his ego.

What a fucking idiot. I crack my neck again and step back again.

“Unless you’re working with someone trained to withstand torture, a little motivation is all someone usually needs,” I instruct Gwen again, listening to her take a few tentative steps forward. She keeps her distance though, as I slam my fist against Kayden’s face.

“Fuck,” he nearly screams, breathing hard through his mouth as blood trickles from his lip.

“Normally I would move straight to blades,” I inform Gwen, latching on to that little window in my mind. “But I don’t think our friend here is going to need much convincing.”

Kayden sneers, blood coating a few of his teeth.

“You don’t know fucking anything,” he says, before I land another blow across his face. His cry is choked, like he’s holding it back.

“Konstantin’s people run weapons to some of the most vile people on this planet. Is that the glory your father wanted for you?” I say, striking him again, this time across the right side of his jaw. He spits blood at my feet.

“You think your family is any fucking better?” he yells, and the way his anger ratchets fuels me. Every inch less controlled he becomes, the more I sink into my skin, the steady familiarity of this work.

More than fists and blades, reading people is the most important part of what I do. What will get someone talking—silence or responses, threats or blows, anticipation or onslaught? Kayden’s pride makes him more likely to argue, to prove he’s right, and I’ll use that to my advantage.

“I think we have a set of morals that we adhere to, and you sell your loyalty to the highest bidder.” I’m not even through the sentence before he’s laughing.

“Morals? Fuck you, man. You’re not any different from the rest of us,” he chokes on the words as I strike him again. This time, he takes longer to recover. “You don’t fucking know anything,” he repeats.

I step back and let him recover a bit, biding my time. He’ll give me Konstantine’s contact. They always break.

There’s a few beats of silence, cut only by Kayden’s heavy breathing, before I hear Gwen’s hesitant steps.

“Charlie,” she nearly whispers. The window in my mind brightens a little more, illuminated by the sound of her voice. “Do you mind if I ask him something?”

It takes a shocking amount of effort to turn and meet her gaze. She’s still guarded, her wall still high. I have the same impulse I did at Catalina’s—to crawl into her mind, under her skin, to be so close to her she can’t help but reveal her every thought to me.

I had expected her to just observe, but she doesn’t look afraid. Her eyes still map my face, but she seems resolved, so I nod.

Her movements are careful and calculated as she steps around me and squats in front of Kayden. I have to remind myself that he’s restrained, that if he could have gotten free he already would have, that she’s safe. That even if he did somehow release himself, I wouldn’t let him fucking touch her.

Her knees rest on the ground, droplets of Kayden’s blood soaking into her jeans. She tilts her head up, locking eyes with him.

“Why do you think our family is no different from anyone else?” she asks, her voice kind and empathetic.

The words our family echo through my head like a prayer, like a hymn. I’m so captivated by them I almost miss the way Kayden’s eyes flash with fear before icing over again.

Gwen stares at him a moment longer, contemplative, before turning over her shoulder to me.

“Teach me.”

There’s something alive inside of me, attempting to crawl its way out through my throat to consume her, to be consumed by her. It’s a lust I’ve never experienced before, so natural and dominating that it might be in my blood.

The little window is the only thing that reminds me to rein in this sensation, that she doesn’t feel this, that I promised. I control my expression the best I can, more difficult than any training or torture I’ve experienced, and turn toward the steel table.

It’s easy, choosing a blade. It’s the same one I learned with, nearly two decades ago. Warm and familiar in my palm, I turn it over, making my way back to her.

I don’t look at Kayden, even though I hear him struggling again. I’m captivated entirely by her gentle determination, the empathy that I now think was not for our victim, but for me.

I kneel beside her and slide the handle into her palm, adjusting her fingers on the hilt and encompassing her hand with my own. Together, we tilt the edge of the blade against Kayden’s thigh.

“Press here, mia filettatura.”