He never offered an ounce of sympathy. Only when I was on the verge of passing out from the agony did he toss out a single, frigid line.
"Remember this pain. It's the price of your stupidity."
On the morning of the third day, the butler delivered a pure black couture trench coat.
I stood before the floor-length mirror, staring at the woman reflected back at me. Pale face. Vicious eyes.
When I changed and came downstairs, Christian was sitting in the dining room, flipping through the morning paper.
"Ready?"
He didn't bother looking up. His tone was offhand, almost bored.
"Let's go."
I pulled on a pair of black leather gloves, hiding the ugly constellation of cigarette burns across the backs of my hands.
The motorcade headed toward the East District. The territory I'd once bled to claim.
Inside the car, Christian handed me a file.
"Have a look. A little appetizer from your dear lover."
My expression didn't change as I opened the folder. Then my pupils contracted sharply.
Inside was a stack of high-resolution photographs.
In them, Tyler Briggs, my most capable enforcer, was being pinned facedown in the mud by several men and beaten.
His legs had been broken. They bent at sickening, unnatural angles.