Page 11 of Savage Little Secret

I walk away from the guest bedroom, not wanting Cara to overhear me before I give him his next orders.

I’ve told her too much already. I was so damn stupid thinking that I could actually trust someone. Someone I barely even knew!

“I’ve changed my mind. I want you to grab one of the Irish men creeping around the hotel and bring him to the antique store,” I tell him.

A quiet moment passes before Isaak replies. “Sir?”

“You heard me,” I bite out. “Capture one of them alive so that I can question him!”

“Yes, sir,” Isaak replies a second before I end the call.

Without even waiting for confirmation that they’ve caught someone, I storm out of my penthouse and drive myself to the antique shop, speeding through the streets with a heavy foot on the gas pedal. When I get my hands on this guy, he’s going to tell me everything he fucking knows about Cara.

I throw my car door open the moment I park at the back of the shop, my adrenaline sky high. No one is in the building when I enter, but I still go to the room where we hold prisoners. The Italian was released, but he’s likely to cause more problems in the future after his time here.

I pace around the room, unable to relax, feeling like I’m going to crawl out of my damn skin. I don’t know how many times I circle the chair in the center of the room until I finally hear noise from the back door.

Muffled grunting and cursing, telling me that my men came through.

“Kick me again and I’ll knock your ass out!” Emil snaps from out in the hallway.

A few seconds later, Emil, Isaak, and Mark drag in who I assume is a gagged Irishman, blood running from his nose and a cut over his swollen eye. They haul him into the chair and start tying him down, narrowly missing kicks and elbows as he struggles and spits against the cloth in his mouth.

I breathe in slowly, the air rattling in my lungs as I stand in front of the man. “Take off the gag. He’s going to answer my questions.”

“What’s this about, boss? Are you still questioning people about the shooting?” Emil asks me before anyone makes a move toward the captured man.

Coldness seeps into my chest as I look over at my men. “I’ll be asking him questions about various things. I don’t need any of you here. Wait outside. And have two guards stationed outside my penthouse. Make sure no one comes in or out, including the guards. No one enters.”

“Why not? Is there someone in your penthouse?” Mark asks me. “Is it⁠—”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Do you think this is twenty fucking questions? Go! I’ll call you back in here if you’re needed.”

My men watch me with suspicion in their eyes, but they head out of the room without another word, leaving me alone with my prisoner.

I rip the gag out of the man’s mouth and toss it to the side. “What’s your name?”

“Like you fucking care, you Russian scum,” he replies before spitting blood at the floor near my feet.

Of course, they grabbed the most defiant one. That’s fine. I have ways to work around stubbornness.

I step out of the room for a moment before coming back in with a metal baseball bat gripped in my hands. I swing it against his knee, hearing a sharp crack, followed by his howl of pain.

“What the fuck, man!” he cries out.

I lift the bat again. “Name!”

“Brendan!”

I slowly lower the bat and take a breath. “Okay, Brendan. I need some information from you, and if you don’t want me to bash your skull in slowly, gradually, you’ll give it to me.”

Sweat and blood already glisten on his face as he glares up at me. “What information could I possibly give you?”

I know what I want to ask first, but I should start from the beginning. I should be smart about this, even if my rage is making it hard for me to think straight.

“The shooting at the Wynn — did the Irish have anything to do with it?” I question him.

Brendan screws up his face at me. “What? No. We like to fight dirty, but not from rooftops miles away.”