Chapter Forty-Two
Stefano
I WAKE UP IN an unfamiliar room.
White, clinical, windowless. A camera mounted in the ceiling.
My head’s fogged, but I manage to stand and cross to the door to test it. It’s unlocked. On the other side is a long, narrow hall. No one in sight. Cameras everywhere.
Muffled voices tug me left down the stark white corridor. It feels endless, but eventually opens into a dome-shaped room. Also white and utilitarian, futuristic even.
A lounge, apparently, judging by the pool table, mini golf setup, and grand piano.
To the left, adjacent to the piano, two men sit at a table playing a game of chess. One’s back is to me—broad shoulders, short graying hair. The other, facing me, is stocky with ruddy cheeks.
“Who—” I try, but my mouth’s bone-dry.
“Is that you, Desert King?” asks the man with his back still turned.
The ruddy-faced bastard chuckles. Neither of them look at me.
“Leave us,” the older man says. “Have the kitchen fix him a robust meal.”
Ruddy Face gets up and leaves, clapping me on the shoulder as he passes. “Good luck, Nine.”
If I wasn’t so hazy and off-kilter, I’d plant the fucker into the wall.
Back still turned to me, the remaining asshole snaps his fingers and points toward the wet bar. “Fix yourself a drink. Might help that dry throat.”
Every cell in me bristles at his dismissive tone, as if I’m some pissant beneath him. But I bite my tongue and keep a cool head.
One, there’s no doubt I’m in the grasp of The O. And no matter how righteous my anger or bruised my pride, these people aren’t to be fucked with.
Two, I do need a drink, because it’s damn near impossible to speak. My throat feels like it’s packed with sand.
Ego in check, I cross to the wet bar, twist open a bottled water, and down it. Then another. And another. Once my throat’s halfway functional, I pour a finger of whiskey and walk over to him, dropping into the empty club chair across the table.
One good look at his face, and I take a sip of whiskey to wash down my pride.
Pavlov Niiveaux. Also known by the American alias “Chadrick.” Second in command of The O. Married to the commander-in-chief, JB.
Yeah. I’m in deep shit.
People this high up are ghosts—heard about, never seen. If you find yourself in front of this motherfucker or his wife, you’re either about to die…or you’ve found favor.
And I know damn well it’s not the latter. I’ve been a boundary-pushing pain in their asses ever since their kingmaker, Torin Garza, folded me in.
Not surprised, though. They warned me to back off. I chose possible death over obedience. Now here we are. It is what it is. No regrets.
Pavlov watches me with blank eyes, fingers steepled beneath his chin. “I’d invite you to the game, but from what I hear, you suck at chess. Never know when danger’s closing in.”
I look down at the board. Takes me less than a minute to read his setup for the win. “Can’t be worse than your last opponent. Pathetic defense. You’ll have him in two moves.”
After another minute of assessing the board, I slide the remaining bishop into place to protect the queen.
Pavlov nods, approving.
“I don’t suck at chess,” I say. “I was just getting beaten by the best. And I always know when danger’s closing in. I just don’t ever take the easy way out and run from it.”
“And where is ‘the best’ now? Dead or spared?” He doesn’t blink. “Everyone knows you’ve got a soft spot for ‘la famiglia.’”
“Incinerated to dust.”
Was I furious at Vale’s betrayal? Not really. Just disappointed.
The women he terrorized, however, demanded blood. So I handed him over to them to exact their revenge however they saw fit. Let them decide.
And they did.
They tied him to a stake, caned him raw, then burned him alive. Not one of them flinched or looked away as he cried out for mercy while he burned alive. Women can be terrifying when they’re angry.
“You’re a daring man, Stefano.” He moves a piece on the board. “Tell me, when did you stop fearing death?”
“About two years ago.”
“Why?”
“Peak ennui.” I take a sip of whiskey, eyes on the board. “Was at a point where I had everything I ever wanted. Every milestone hit. Got so bored I stopped caring if I lived or died.”
“And now?” He lifts his gaze to mine. “Are you ready to die, right here and now?”
“No.”
“What changed?”
“Two years ago, I thought I’d seen it all, experienced it all, felt it all,” I admit. “Turns out, I hadn’t. How wrong I was.”
He raises a brow, just slightly. “What happened since then?”
“I fell in love.”
“Ah. Raya Michel.” He takes a drink of water. “The girl you got on your knees for, and have spent half a year chasing around the globe.”
Hmm. Does he expect me to believe he doesn’t know that her real name isn’t Raya Michel? The man who knows everything? What’s he playing at? “Soraya. Yes.”
Pavlov leans back in his chair, studying me. Something flickers beneath his blank mask.
“Would you do it again?” he asks. “Would you get on your knees right now and beg me not to kill you, just to see her again?”
In a heartbeat. “Yes. I would.”
There’s no humor in the chuckle that leaves him.
“All these years, you’ve been such a pain in the ass.
Now look at you, all pliable. Willing to kneel.
Willing to beg.” He tilts his head, voice colder now.
“Maybe I should kill her instead. Out of spite. That’d be the perfect punishment, don’t you think? ”
A destructive mixture of panic and rage slams into me, violent and instant.
I shoot to my feet and sweep the chessboard with my forearm, send the pieces flying.
And then I lurch forward, stopping just short of grabbing the fucker by the collar.
“I don’t give a shit if you’re a god on earth, if you control the wind and the fucking sea, but if you ever lay a finger on her, I will find a way to end you. ”
Within seconds, half a dozen armed men materialize. Stone-gray tactical gear and full-face digital masks, the screens flashing a pulsing red.
Pavlov, unperturbed, flicks his wrist, dismissive. “All’s good. He’s just a fool in love. Leave us.”
The guards hesitate. But then their flashing digital masks shift from red to a still blue. And one by one, they back off and disappear.
Pavlov gestures to the chair. “Sit.”
I don’t move. “Give me your word you won’t hurt her.”
“I won’t give you shit,” he replies with unflappable calmness. “Both of your lives are mine to play with as I please. You defied orders. She lured you here. And like a lamb to the slaughter, you came.”
No matter what I just threatened, the truth is, if he decides to kill her, there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.
That in mind, I sit down and switch gears. “Do whatever you want to me. Just don’t hurt her.”
He steeples his fingers again, watching me for a beat. “Alright. How about this, I’ll spare her life in exchange for Vegas. Your power. Your properties. Your empire.”
“Easy deal,” I say. “Thought I already proved I’m willing to do that when I knelt before Vale.”
He scoffs. “Come on now. We both know you’ve got a shit-ton of airtight contingencies—us included.
Vale wouldn’t have owned a damn thing except the six-foot hole he’d end up in.
” He leans forward, voice dropping. “Out there are the puppets. In here, the masters. Now I, Pavlov Niiveaux-Byrd, the one who knows all your secrets, all your backup plans, where every last hoard is buried, am asking you: would you really trade it all for her?”
Considering how hard I’ve worked, how much I’ve sacrificed to build it all…it should take me some time to think about it, to double and triple check that I’m sure this is what I want. But…it doesn’t. Not even a minute. “I would.”
My response seems to irritate him. “For some woman you barely know? Who lied to your face the entire time?” He slams his fist on the table. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
His sudden outburst stuns me for half a second. Where did all the unflappable calm go all of a sudden?
“What’s wrong with me is that she made me feel more alive and at peace in the short time she was with me than I ever have in my thirty-eight years of living,” I fire back.
“You think I’ve been hunting her down all this time for shits and giggles?
Nothing back in Vegas, none of it, comes close to what I felt when I saw her again today.
” I hold his stare. “So yeah. You can have it all.”
“You’re weak!” Nostrils flared, he jabs an irate finger in my face. “You’re fucking weak!”
With that, he shoves to his feet and starts pacing.
Thrown by his anger, I lean back and sip my whiskey, watching him unravel. A minute ago, he was all calm, cool, and in control. Now he’s losing his shit because I’m willing to walk away from my empire?
His reaction’s off. Disproportionate. This is the behavior of a man in the throes of losing a battle. But who on earth could that battle be against? He and his wife have the world in their palms.
To them, I’m about as threatening as a house gecko—annoying, but harmless.
Something’s not adding up here...
“Why are you so worked up?” I press. “What do you care if I walk away or not? You had me on the Kill List months ago. I thought you’d be relieved to not have to deal with me ag—”
“I’m pissed off because I wanted her to be wrong about you,” he grinds out.
Wait. Her? “Who? Soraya? Wrong about what?”
“That you aren’t a selfish, self-serving, money-grubbing, power-hungry piece of shit.”
“Well…” I tip my head from side to side. “I am all of those things, so she is wrong...”
The glare he daggers at me is a weapon on its own.
I lift my hands in surrender.
He storms back to the table and stabs a finger at my chest, punctuating each word with a hard jab. “You. Don’t. Deserve. Her.”
“You’re right about that, too. But, uh…” I stand up to meet him eye to eye. “A moment ago, you were threatening to kill her just to punish me.”
He lets out a dry, dark, humorless laugh. “I would chop off my own arm before I hurt that girl, you fool.”
Say what now? “Who is she to THE O, Pavlov?”
“She is THE O.” His jaw clenches, voice like stone. “Soraya Byrd is my fucking daughter.”
Before that revelatory bomb can fully detonate, he punches me square in the face.