Chapter Twenty-Three
Tank
The scent of stale sugar and spilled coffee hits me the second I walk through the back door of Sticky Buns. I pause just inside, eyes scanning the room, taking in the chaos Ricky DeMarco has left in his wake. Half-eaten pastries litter the floor around the cot I left him on, because I damn well didn’t have the time to drive him all to my cabin and leave him alone in my home before my date with Bianca. I’m willing to sacrifice a lot for my mission, but I have my limits. And besides, Ricky needs to work harder at this baking gig, and he can’t do that in my cabin. Still, what he’s left behind is a disgraceful horror show. A tray of misshapen, lumpy pastries sits abandoned on the prep counter, sticky with unevenly smeared marmalade. Flour dusts everything like a damn snowstorm. There’s a puddle of melted butter just covering one of my prep counters. And it’s no regular butter, either. It’s the good shit. The kind with the fat content and salt levels that make it absolutely perfect for pastry. It’s expensive shit.
My first instinct is to be pissed.
Then I look at the tray again.
They’re ugly as sin, but… they’re better than the ones he made before. He’s trying. He’s learning.
And that’s all the confirmation I need to see that my work is working. He gives a shit.
Maybe he’s not so bad after all. Maybe there’s hope for him.
I grunt, start up the coffeemaker, grab two mugs and pour black, scalding coffee into both. One for me. One for him.
Then I kick the leg of the cot. “Wake up, Sleeping Beauty.”
Ricky jerks awake, blinking blearily at me, eyes still a little sunken from the withdrawals. He looks about as good as his pastry right now. His hand instinctively tugs at the cuff securing him to the cot’s frame, and he groans.
"Still chained up, huh? That’s real fucking humane. Should I call the SPCA on you?"
I hand him the coffee, ignoring the complaint. "Don’t be dramatic."
He takes the mug, eyeing me warily before drinking. He’s exhausted, but grateful.
"You left me tied up in a bakery all night," he grumbles. “All so you could go out on a date.”
I sip my coffee, watching him over the rim. "Gave you enough slack to move around. You could reach the essentials. Even the bathroom."
Ricky snorts. “Still felt like a dog.”
I give him a long, considering look, letting the silence stretch between us just long enough to make him squirm a little. "Considering where you started, that’s a step up for you," I say, watching as his frown deepens into something more stormy.
"Think about it. Dogs are loyal, loving, self-sacrificing. Dogs are fucking great, and any person should be fucking proud to be compared to a dog. Hell, it’d be a fucking step up for most of us." I lean against the counter, crossing my arms like I'm settling in for a long lecture. Inside, I wonder why the fuck I have to explain how great dogs are to anyone — it’s just an intrinsic fact of life. "You? You’ve been a selfish, addict piece of shit. And you’ve done nothing but hurt the woman you say you love."
Ricky's face darkens like a sudden eclipse, and his jaw clenches tight. The anger in his eyes flares. The coffee trembles slightly in his hand.
For a moment, neither of us speaks, the sound of the coffee maker burbling quietly into the silence. Ricky’s stare is hard and defiant, but beneath it, I can see the shifting tides of vulnerability and recognition in his eyes. It’s a lot like watching a man wrestle with a ghost.
Finally, he breaks the quiet. "Maybe I have been a selfish addict piece of shit.”
I don’t answer right away. I let the silence stretch before moving on. What he’s said has to soak in, he has to feel it, bathe in it, drown in it.
"You want to stop being a piece of shit, Ricky? Here’s your shot. Tell me about Moretti’s operation."
He stiffens.
I lean in, lowering my voice. “Tell me about the money. The dealers. Where Victor goes, when he’s alone, when he’s weak. Everything.”
His hand clenches around his coffee cup. "That’s a big ask."
"You owe me. And you know it."
Ricky exhales hard, looking away. "I know what telling you means. And I will not give that to you. I can’t risk it. Victor’s too…"
His voice trails off and he shakes his head. Ricky has no fucking clue who he’s dealing with.
"I’m disappointed, Ricky. Thought by now, you’d have wised up to your situation."
His jaw tightens. Then he mutters, "What now? You gonna torture me?"
I laugh. Not reassuringly. More like I find him amusing in a way that should make him very nervous. He stiffens again, eyes flicking to my hands, like he’s waiting for me to grab a knife or something. I even lean forward slightly, just enough to make him flinch. Then, satisfied he’s enough of a messy bundle of nerves, I relax, taking another slow sip of coffee. "No. You know, torture never really works, right?"
Ricky watches me, eyes narrowed. “What the hell does that mean?”
"I’ll tell you a story.
I settle back against the counter, get comfortable.
"You’ve probably guessed I was in the service. I don’t hide it. I’m a fucking Ranger,” I say. “And back in the Rangers, I was on a mission I can’t give you the particulars of. Classified. But let’s just say it went sideways. I got captured. And my captors? They really wanted to know about my team, my mission, and our objectives. So, they started in with the torture. Beatings. Sleep deprivation. Leeches. Putting my feet in buckets of biting bugs. Some real creative shit."
Ricky swallows, but doesn’t speak.
"I was impressed at their creativity, because some of it really felt like it was straight out of one of those ‘Hellraiser’ movies. But I was also so pissed off at them," I continue, "that I started spinning lies. Just feeding them the dumbest bullshit I could come up with. Hell, most of my stories were straight-up ripped from TV shows." I grin at the memory. "Sent them on a wild goose chase for two weeks before my team finally got me out." I tilt my head at Ricky. "So, no. I’m not gonna waste my time torturing you. Because the point of torture is just to hurt someone, and that’s not what I said I’m going to do to you. Do you remember what I said I’d do? I said I’d break you."
I let the weight of my words settle between us. Let the silence stretch. Watch him gulp and squirm against his handcuffs.
Truth is, I didn’t just tell him I was going to break him, I’m going to remake him, too. I can’t put all my eggs in one basket and trust that Bianca will get me close enough to Victor to pull the trigger and put an end to him and his organization; this is a war, and in a war, you use every tool at your disposal to destroy your enemy.
Then I speak. "And there’s a lot of ways to really break someone, Ricky. Take a moment. Think about it. How do you think I’m going to break you? How do you think I’m going to make you do what I want?"
Ricky looks down. I can almost see the gears turning. The way his shoulders sag under the weight of it all. Good.
"Then what?" His voice is hoarse. A rasp. "What are you gonna do to me, then?"
I set my coffee down and fix him with a steady stare. "You have something I want." My voice is low. It burns in my throat. "So tell me what you want in exchange. Tell me your price."
Ricky swallows again. His throat bobs. “That’s it?”
“You can break a man, you can change a man, by making sure he’s properly motivated. By making him cooperate. You and I both know that there’s something deep down driving you. Something you desire more than anything else. Take a second, think, and tell me your price.”
Ricky stays quiet. Then he says, "I want to see Vanessa."
I study him. Then I nod. "Alright."
His head jerks up, shocked. “Alright?”
"We finish work today," I tell him. "You and I will bring some extra pastries over to Safe House, and you can find out if Vanessa even wants to see you."
His expression shifts. Hope flickers behind his eyes.
"But let me be clear," I add, stepping forward, looming over him. "If she does, you’re a lucky man. But either way? I’ll be watching you. And if you step out of line, I will chain you to my bed again, and this time?" I grin. "It won’t be nearly so fucking comfortable. Are you in?"
“I’m in.”