Page 145 of Captivated

“I want Liliana Marcello back with her family, and your son has her.”

Marcie’s head snapped to the side, and her gaze blazed as she stared—slack-jawed—at Joe. “How do you know Rich has her?”

“I know,” is all Joe offered.

“Well,” the woman spluttered, “I don’t know that, so I’m not sure why you assume I have anything that might be useful to you.”

“I’m sure you know someone who might.”

The woman’s cheek twitched.

Like her fingers.

And her eye.

She was going to lie. Joe saw all the signs.

“He’s my son,” she offered quietly.

Joe nodded. “And so, you want to protect him.”

“Clearly.”

Joe didn’t like to lie, but he could, and he was damned good at it, too. Especially when it meant getting what he wanted. And right now, he wanted Liliana more than anything in the whole world. He wanted her back, so he could tell her that he loved her, and she was his one person made just for him.

He wanted her back.

So, he lied.

“Tell me who would know the information I’m seeking, and I’ll let him live when I find him,” Joe said.

Marcie took a breath.

And then another.

“Trevor.”

“The assistant?” Joe questioned, remembering the man he had punched at the charity event. “You’re sure that’s the answer you want to give me?”

Marcie shrugged. “If anyone knows anything, it’s Trevor Mason. He won’t even answer my calls because he doesn’t like to lie to me. He knows that I know something is wrong, and he has the answers. Or … some of them.”

Trevor it was.

Joe stood up, and glanced back at the woman. “The slitting your tongue thing can still happen, by the way. This meeting never happened.”

Streaks of color managed to break through some of the dirt and grime on the warehouse window, and left red and yellow lines on the ruddy floor.

Ruddy from dried blood.

Usually, Joe liked this time of day the best. A fresh start, and new beginnings. Each day could be something different, if that’s what he wanted to do. On this day, however, none of those thoughts were forefront on his mind.

“One last chance to give me a name,” Joe murmured, his knife twisting beneath the kneecap of the man tied to a chair, “or we start this all over again.”

The guy was bloodied.

Battered.

His mind probably broken.