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Whether they planted the bomb or not, I wanted every last Caruso dead. Even the ones who hadn't been there, even the ones who'd had nothing to do with the bombing.

It didn’t matter to me because they’d let her die.

But I was getting close to completing my Garden of Heads.

Only five Caruso men were left.

Vittorio spent ten years hiding from me, knowing I was coming, knowing I would stop at nothing to hunt him down and destroy him.

But he was unlucky, and I found him in South America at a cartel stronghold.

Now, he’d spent seven weeks in my basement, where I'd been torturing him one piece at a time, cutting him every night and bathing in his screams.

I didn't expect him to last much longer because he was barely hanging on by a thread.

Unfortunate that.

I sighed and peeled another piece of flesh from his inner thigh, close to his groin.

He screamed, which was music to my ears, but the sound was weak and pathetic. Barely there.

I kept carving shapes into his leg as the color leeched from his face and his strength faded; then he stopped moving altogether.

Three hours. That's how long I'd been at it.

I huffed and switched on my cardiac monitor.

One long beep sounded.

With another sigh, I switched the machine off again.

“Well, you lasted longer than most of the rest.” I kicked his chair.

In the corner stood my best woodchopping ax—or, in this case, head-chopping ax—and it was its time to shine.

With one strong swing, I sent Vitto's head bouncing across the floor.

Such a beautiful sound.

I never got over it.

It was so peaceful and right.

A sting shot through my torso as I moved. The burns pulled tight beneath my clothes. Four weeks had passed since the fire, and although my skin was healing, the damn things still fucking hurt from time to time.

I winced as I sat in a folding chair, another twinge shooting through my torso. I rested my elbows on my knees and watched the blood drain from Vitto's head.

My cleaning staff hated me.

The tenth time I'd carried a severed head upstairs, through the grand hall, and out the back exit, Olga had yelled at me to clean up the blood myself.

We'd reached a compromise after that. I'd let most of the blood drain from the heads before moving them upstairs.

So that was what I was doing.

Watching a head drain of blood.

Riveting stuff.