Bloodlines and Bullets

twenty-three

"That's kinky. I didn't realize you were into that sort of thing."

His eyes flash with something unreadable, and he chuckles, a low, unsettling sound that sends a shiver down my spine. "You might like that, wouldn't you?"

Heat flushes my cheeks. I try to ignore the rising blush and maintain my composure, even though my heart pounds wildly against my ribcage.

His smile widens, revealing a cruel satisfaction. "Thought so. Now sit, unless you want me to fulfill your fantasies right here." He runs his fingers deliberately over the knife's edge, the gesture both menacing and mocking.

"Fucking bastard," I mutter under my breath, but slowly walk over to the chairs.

I know he heard me, but I'm glad he chose to ignore my words. Instead of punishing me, he walks over to his desk. Pulling out a file, he begins flipping through the pages.

"Here," he says, tossing the file onto the floor near my feet. "This is your mission. Read it, and make sure you understand it. Failure isn't an option."

I don't move at first, just staring blankly at the papers scattered across the floor. Slowly I step forward, squatting down to pick up the file, the movement sending fresh waves of pain through my knees.

"Good girl," he says mockingly, and I grit my teeth, every ounce of my being wanting to lash out. But I hold back, knowing that if I'm to survive this, I need to be smart.

I make my way back to the chairs. I settle into one, the padding surprisingly comfortable against my sore body. Opening the file, I scan through the pages, searching for the details of my task.

"You're to gather information on the head of the Spanish mafia in Toronto - Ares Martinez," he instructs.

I raise an eyebrow, fighting to keep my tone steady. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything," he replies, his gaze unwavering. "Who he associates with, where he spends his time, his habits - his strengths and weaknesses. I want to know anything and everything that could be useful to me."

"And how do you suggest I get this information?" I ask, trying to mask the underlying frustration in my voice.

"You'll find him in a bar in Toronto," he explains. "Your cover is Isabella Walker, a traveller looking for quick jobs that pay well. The easiest way to get close to him is through his brother, Arrio. He's known for his whoring around."

I feel a surge of indignation. "You want me to sleep with him? That's not going to happen."

His expression remains as impassive as ever. "I don't care how you get the information, just as long as you do."

I swallow hard, fighting back the wave of frustration and anger that threatens to spill over. I knew he was a bastard, but this crosses a line.

"Fine," I say, striving to keep my voice steady despite the tight knot of nerves in my stomach.

His eyes narrow dangerously, a dark glint flashing in their depths. "Good girl. We'll leave Thursday afternoon. Remember, if you deliver, you'll be one step closer to the freedom you so desperately crave."

I nod, my jaw clenched tightly. "Who can say no to a chance at freedom?"

"Thalia," he says, his voice dropping to a dangerously low whisper. "Don't even think about crossing me. My men will be with you and will eliminate you without hesitation if necessary."

"This is your opportunity to prove that you're trustworthy," he continues as he rises from his chair, his posture radiating authority. "Earning my trust will serve you better than any half-baked plans you're cooking up in that head of yours."