Chapter Ninety-Six
Tied to a chair, his wrists bound to the armrests, his ankles secured to the legs of the chair. His dark hair was disheveled, and his shirt was slightly torn, but there were no marks on him— yet.
The others had followed her orders to capture him, however no one touched him because they knew who Cole was. He was her right hand.
And by the look on their faces, she knew what they wanted to ask her. What could Cole of all people do to her that she’d tie him up in the torture room?
His head lifted as she stepped closer, his deep brown eyes locking onto hers. No panic. No pleading. Just... confusion.
"Boss?" His voice was steady, but there was a crease between his brows. "What the hell is this?"
Cole had never spoken to her like that before. Considering he was caught and about to take her last breath, should he not be submissive even more?
She didn’t answer. Not yet. She studied him, searching for sothing— guilt, hesitation, a flicker of recognition that he had been caught.
But all she saw was him. The man who had stood beside her through every fight and mission, every impossible decision. The man who never hesitated to take a bullet for her.
Her nails bit into her palms. ’Was it all an act?’
She took a slow step closer. Then another. Her voice, when it ca, was low and edged with sothing sharp. "Tell the truth. And tell fast. Who are you working for?" What she hated the most was betrayal.
A muscle in his jaw twitched. His eyes flickered, searching her face as if trying to make sense of the accusation. He leaned forward against the restraints, while the ropes bit into his skin.
"You think I’m working for soone?" His voice was quieter now, controlled, but beneath it, sothing simred.
Her heart slamd against her ribs, but she didn’t let it show. She took another step closer, close enough to see the sheen of sweat at his temple, close enough to catch the faint scent of cologne still clinging to his torn shirt.
Cole had punished people before... More than he had taken his breakfasts this month. He should how this ended. Delaying this would be a stupid idea.
"I know you are." Her words were cold and precise. "The question is who."
His lips pressed into a tight line. A flicker of sothing crossed his face— hurt? Anger? It didn’t matter to her.
The man who was giving her the information ntioned his na before he was killed. She was sure Cole or whoever he was working with and for, found the dead man reporting to her and silenced him but unfortunately for them, he ntioned a na. And that was a great start. Regardless of who the person was.
She crouched in front of him, resting her elbows on her knees. Their eyes were level now. "My father?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Silence. A dangerous silence.
His breath was steady, but his fingers flexed against the armrests. He wasn’t giving her anything.
Her stomach twisted. Anxiety creeping in.
She forced herself to nod, swallowing down the bitter taste rising in her throat. The room suddenly felt smaller, the air heavier. He knew what that ant. If he had been feeding information to her father, she was already as good as dead. And so was he.
But then he spoke.
"I’m not working for your father."
The words ca slowly like he knew exactly what they ant to him and he sounded so genuine.
She exhaled softly through her mouth. The pressure in her chest eased— just a fraction. She was safe.
But he wasn’t.
If it wasn’t her father, then she was safe.
She stood, straightening her spine. The tension in her jaw returned. If not her father, then who? Who could he be working for?
And did it even matter anymore?
"Boss, I am not working for anyone." He whispered.
She exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through her hair before turning away from him. She stopped where the tools lay waiting.
A tal tray sat against the wall, lined with instrunts that glead in the room, waiting to work their way to the truth. Blades, pliers, a rusted hamr, a blowtorch... each one had its use, and each one had drawn screams from the guilty before.
Her fingers hovered over them, grazing the cold steel, the smooth wood of a bat, and the sharp ridges of a pair of clamps. She could break him piece by piece. She could make him beg.
But no.
Her hand stilled over the knife.
Sleek, familiar. Sharp.
She curled her fingers around the handle, lifting it, and feeling its weight. It wasn’t the most brutal choice. It wasn’t the most painful. But it was personal.
She turned back to him, rolling the knife between her fingers. His eyes flicked to it, then back to her. His chest rose and fell in uneven breaths.
She took a slow step forward.
"Let’s try this again."
Her fingers tightened around the knife, while her nails pressed into her palm. He wasn’t going to tell her easily.
She knew that. However, this was making her angry.
She had given him the order to tell her who his master was, and yet here he was being defiant. That wasn’t like him.
He obeyed. He always obeyed. He had followed her through fire, through blood, through every impossible operation. And yet now, when it mattered most, he refused?
Her jaw tensed. "I’ll ask you one more ti." She lowered herself so they were at eye level. Her voice was steady, cold. "Who. Are you? Working for?"
He swallowed hard. His eyes darted to the knife, then back to her. His fingers twitched against the restraints. "Boss, please—"
She slashed the blade across his arm. Not deep. Just enough to make him feel it.
He didn’t scream. Only his body jerked against the chair, but he didn’t fight. He never fought her. That was the problem. If he were truly innocent, he would be angry, wouldn’t he? He would be swearing, demanding to be freed. But he just sat there, wide-eyed, breath shaky.
Like a man who knew he had been caught.
"I— I swear," he stamred, his voice breaking. "I’m not working for anyone! I don’t know where this is coming from, but—"
She grabbed his jaw, forcing him to look at her. His skin was damp with sweat now. His pulse thrumd wildly beneath her fingers.
"You fear ," she murmured, her grip tightening. "You’ve always feared . And yet now, when I’m giving you a chance to save yourself, you refuse?"
His throat bobbed as he swallowed. "I do fear you." His voice was a whisper now, shaky. "That’s why I know... I know you’ll do whatever it takes to get the truth."
Her chest rose and fell, her grip still firm. His eyes glistened with sothing— fear, yes, but also sothing else. Sothing like... hurt.
She released him suddenly, stepping back.
If he was lying, why did it feel like she was the one losing control?
She barely looked up as she spoke. "Turn on the stove."
A pause. A hesitation. The n around them exchanged glances.
"Boss—" soone started.
Her head snapped in their direction, eyes dark and unforgiving. "Now."
The room was silent, save for the sharp shuffle of boots as one of them obeyed. A few seconds later, the low sound of the gas stove filled the space, followed by the faint crackle of blue flas licking in the air.
She stepped closer with a knife in her hand. The murmurs started again. Their quiet voices were uneasy.
"Are we really doing this?" she heard them but none of them dared to stop her.
The whispers grated against her nerves, but she ignored them. They didn’t know what she knew. They hadn’t heard the gunshots that ca imdiately after her informant ntioned Cole’s na.
Soone was scared of what she’d know.
She lowered the knife toward the flas.
The steel darkened almost instantly, the edge glowing red-hot as the heat consud it. The handle grew warm in her grip, but she barely noticed.
Behind her, the chair creaked as he shifted. He hadn’t said a word. Still hadn’t pleaded. Hadn’t cursed her out the way a guilty man would.
No. He just watched.
Silent. Unmoving.
His face was drawn tight, but there was no fear in his eyes. No desperation. Just quiet resignation.
She turned back to him, stepping closer. The scent of burning tal filled the air.
"Last chance." Her voice was steady and controlled, though sothing deep in her chest twisted. "Tell the truth."
His jaw tightened. "I did, boss." He still called her boss? At this mont? This particular one? Was she a joke to him?
Her fingers flexed around the knife. The heat radiated off it now becoming almost unbearable.
Then, without another word, she pressed it against his skin.
A sharp sizzle filled the air and the scent of burning flesh curled around them. The murmurs stopped.
He didn’t make a sound.
Not a flinch. Not a groan. Nothing.
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