Page 62 of Corrado

In fact, it got worse.

Three weeks later, he felt like he could probably rip someone’s face off if they looked at him the wrong way, but Corrado had somehow managed to convince his delusional ass that if he ignored his mood, then it wouldn’t be a problem.

Wrong.

He wasn’t willing to admit it, though.

His pride was a bitch.

How many times had he said that?

A lot.

Corrado heard the footsteps—several pairs, not just one—approaching his rooms long before the figures shadowed his doorway. He refused to glance up over the weapons magazine he’d snatched from the communal kitchen to greet the newcomers. This was supposed to be his day to relax, and he was trying his fucking hardest to do that.

Not that it was working.

Nothing did.

“What is it you want, Corrado?”

Cree.

He glanced up over the edge of the magazine, but instead of looking at Cree, his gaze drifted to the people standing just behind him. The team, it looked like. The same team that dragged him into those fucking rooms months ago.

He still didn’t know who they were beneath their black masks. It could be Nathan, the sniper, under one. Or Oliver, the fighter, under another. Although, he doubted that simply because he figured now, he might know them just by being near them. He knew at least one was a woman considering her smaller build, and curves that were accentuated by the tight, black clothing. But that was as much as he knew—they didn’t speak unless they absolutely had to, and he was sure their voices were not the same when they gave orders as it was when they were joking down in one of the communal areas of the complex.

Corrado tried damn hard not to show how seeing the team at his rooms made him feel—tight in his chest, and like a deadweight had come to rest in his stomach. He was not doing those fucking rooms again. He had news for them, if that’s what they thought.

“Are you listening?” Cree asked.

Corrado’s gaze cut back to the man in question. “No.”

Cree’s expression didn’t change.

Nothing new there.

“The last month—three weeks, give or take, but who wants to be specific?—you’ve been struggling,” Cree noted.

“And?”

“What is it you need, hmm?” Cree tipped his head to the side, considering Corrado as he said, “Your brother wanted contact with his parents … he needed motivation, we’ll say. He earned it, and got what he wanted. Did you know that?”

“And?” Corrado asked again.

Because yes, he did know. And no, he didn’t see what it mattered.

Chris was Chris.

Corrado, despite looking the same, was not actually the same. Why was that so hard for people to figure the fuck out?

“I have an offer for you,” Cree said, tipping his hand over like there might be something waiting in his empty palm for Corrado to see; there was nothing, obviously. “I don’t think it’ll be exactly what you want, but some things can’t be helped … and, if anything, it might help with the fact you’re a little stir-crazy.”

He looked to the people behind Cree again.

“What kind of offer?”

“The team—they’ll drop you off about twenty-five miles from here, even further out than we already are. You’ll have to the end of the day.”