Page 11 of Bound in Ruin

"One of our safe houses," Keane replies, his green eyes glinting with grim satisfaction. "The boys have him tied to a chair in the basement."

Usually, I leave the wet, bloody work to my men. I run an army; I don't need to personally break every traitor who crosses my path. But today, my blood is pumping, and I am itching for a fight. I am angry. Rosalia Caruso gets right under my nerves and pricks my skin with her uppity, unyielding attitude.

She can’t be all that saintly and prim as she presents herself. She was married to Luciano DeLorenzo for ten years. Everyone in this godforsaken city knows what kind of prick and undignified bastard Luciano actually was. You don't survive a decade in a viper's nest like that without getting some dirt on your hands.

Yet she looks at me like I’m a savage. She sits in my house acting like she’s better than everyone else, holding her head high despite being traded like property. She gets under my skin in a way no woman ever has, and I fucking hate it. I never let anyone affect me like this. Never.

I rise to my feet, buttoning my suit jacket in one smooth, aggressive motion. "Take me to him."

As Keane and I step out of the study and head toward the garage, I let the raw anger take over my body, channeling every ounce of my frustration into the task ahead. I think about Harold Sinclair and how badly I want to break him to pieces.

We recently discovered that someone on our internal team had been selling out our private political secrets to high-level elites. Secrets that cost millions of dollars to secure—secrets that could utterly destroy me if they land in the wrong hands.

So, I set a trap. I planted false intelligence, sat back, and traced the rat straight down the line. It turned out to be Harold. The moment he figured out we were on his tail, he vanished into thin air.

Too bad for him.

The idiot should have known better. This city belongs to me. There is nowhere he can run, nowhere he can hide, where I won't eventually track him down and drag him into the dark.

And now he’s in my trap.

We head over to the safe house on the industrial edge of the city. The moment the Escalade rolls to a stop, I swing the door open and storm inside, the heavy metal door thudding shut behind Keane and me. I don't waste time with greetings. I head straight down the concrete stairs into the cold, damp basement.

There, illuminated by a single overhead bulb, Harold is strapped tight to a metal folding chair. Blood is already trickling from his nose, his shirt torn at the collar. The moment his eyes land on me coming out of the shadows, they widen in absolute terror.

"Dominic! Dominic, wait!" Harold stammers, his voice cracking as he thrashes against the heavy zip-ties. "Please, man, this is all a huge misunderstanding! You have to listen to me! Think about everything we've done—I’ve been working for you for six years! Six years of total loyalty! I would never sell you out!"

I don't say a single fucking word. His pathetic excuses bounce off me like rain on pavement.

I walk past him to the steel workbench against the back wall and slide open the heavy metal drawer. I pull out my custom leather weapon box, unlatch the brass hooks, and flip the lid open. My fingers pass over the knives and blades, resting instead on a pair of heavy, industrial steel pliers.

I grip the rubber handle, turn around, and walk slowly back over to Harold.

His eyes drop to the tool in my hand, and all the color drains entirely from his face. "Dominic, no—please! I swear to God, it wasn't me! You have the wrong guy! Please, Dominic⁠—"

I grab his left wrist in an iron grip, pinning his forearm flat against the wooden armrest of the chair. He screams and kicks, but I don't budge an inch. I clamp the cold teeth of the pliers firmly around the nail of his index finger.

"Dominic, wait⁠—!"

I twist and yank backward with brutal, deliberate force.

A sickening tear echoes through the basement, instantly drowned out by Harold’s blood-curdling, high-pitched scream. He writhes violently against the restraints, tears and sweat pouring down his face as blood drips steadily onto the concrete floor.

I toss the bloody fingernail onto the floor beside his boot, leaning down until my face is inches from his pale, trembling features.

"Tell me the truth," I growl, my voice dangerously low. "Or I start on the next nine."

He begs and begs, blubbering through his tears, promising he's clean, swearing on his mother's grave. I don't give him the satisfaction of an answer. I simply slide the pliers onto his middle finger, clamp down tight, and yank off another nail bed.

His shrill, guttural scream echoes off the damp concrete walls. The sound calms me. The raw, violent focus washes away the irritation Rosalia left in my veins, leaving a cold, sharp stillness in its place. I remind myself to do this more often. I've been soft, delegating too much, letting my men have all the fun.

"I'll talk! I'll talk!" Harold howls, his body shaking violently as blood pools over his knuckles. "It was me! I sold the access codes to the syndicate's servers! I did it!"

I let him bleed for a moment, letting the agony sink deep into his bones so he remembers exactly where he is.

"The names," I say, my voice steady, ice-cold. "Who did you give my secrets to?"

"I can't!" he cries out, fat tears washing trails through the dirt on his cheeks. "If I give you their names, they'll come for my family! They'll slaughter my wife and kids!"