Page 74 of The Royal Art of Revenge

He sparks the lighter, setting the end of the cigarette alight. The momentary flare of light gives me a proper glimpse at the guy’s face—tough, scarred, and bloodier than I thought it was.

I glance at Hattie. She hasn’t moved a muscle, and if the scene before us bothers her, there isn’t a single hint in her body language.

No.

She looks like someone who sees this every day.

Alec drops to one knee in front of the guy and slowly twists the cigarette. “Who hired you?”

“Dunno,” he replies. “Never said their name.”

“Do you expect me to believe that?”

He shrugs the best he can, given the restraints. “I didn’t get the email, man. I just tagged along.”

“Ah, see, now we’re getting somewhere.”

“Are we?” Hattie mutters, leaning towards me. “Seems like a lot of unnecessary faffing.”

I lay my hand against her lower back, taking a step closer to her. “Shh.”

Alec moves to the guy on the left with the swollen eye. “You’re an ugly bastard, aren’t you?”

He responds by spitting at him.

“Lovely.” Alec wipes his face with his free hand, then draws back his fist. The crack of his knuckles against the guy’s nose rings out through the cavernous room, and I almost wince when I look at Harriet.

She doesn’t flinch.

She’s completely unbothered by Alec’s carefree show of violence.

“Nice shot,” she says.

Nice shot? Nice fucking shot?

Jesus Christ, who is this woman? What has she seen that a man getting his nose broken right in front of her warrants such a response?

“Thank you,” Alec says brightly. “Not sure he agrees.”

“You fucking—”

“Ah, ah, ah.” Alec turns his attention back to the guy and holds the lit cigarette out towards him. “There’s a lady present. You should watch your language.”

The guy glares at him as blood pours from his nose. “Fuck you.” He spits again, and this time, the blood mixes in and splatters across Alec’s face.

“Ah, see, now you’ve pissed me off,” Alec says, wiping his cheek and smearing the guy’s bloody spit. Before the guy can do it again, he takes the lit cigarette and presses the hot end to his bare chest.

The guy clenches his jaw, but he barely makes a sound. Unlike his flesh—it sizzles under the heat of the cigarette, filling the air with an arid scent.

“All right,” Harriet says, stepping away from me. “You. Ballsy prick in the middle.” She steps up in front of the guy whose foot she stabbed with her shoe earlier. “Start fucking talking. Who hired you?”

He leers up at her. “What makes you think I know?”

“Righty over there genuinely doesn’t know, and Lefty is too dumb to admit he doesn’t. Which leaves you, the gobby fucker with one working arm and a wandering eye.” She stares down at him. “So? How much did they offer you?”

He holds her gaze.

“No dice?” she asks. “That’s fine. I already know. A hundred grand, wasn’t it?”