Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 102754 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 514(@200wpm)___ 411(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102754 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 514(@200wpm)___ 411(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
He dragged the crate across the floor and flipped it upright, then sat on it like he had all the time in the world. His eyes settled on us, blank and unreadable, and when he finally spoke, his voice was calm, almost philosophical.
“Sometimes people do things they don’t want to,” he said. “But to survive in life, you have to. It’s one of the first rules no one teaches you. You either become the hunter or the hunter, surely you understand that.”
I didn’t answer. I looked instead at the cop who stood behind him—arms folded tightly over his chest, his face unreadable, and his posture loose but alert. He didn’t react to the man’s words at all, he just stood there, as if nothing happening in this basement concerned him.
The man on the crate tilted his head slightly, the corners of his mouth twitching like he was waiting for something. Then he said, “Take my associate here—Officer Briggs, for instance. He chose to become the hunter. He decided he wouldn’t be the one running.”
He turned slightly like he was inviting Briggs to speak for himself.
Briggs didn’t hesitate. “No regrets,” he confirmed with a small, smug smile. Then his eyes shifted to me, the expression behind them sharpening like broken glass. “I don’t appreciate feeling hunted by Roque and his band of do-gooders.”
The man on the crate nodded once like they were in perfect agreement. “Neither do I.”
I looked back at him, memorizing every detail like the sharp cut of his jaw. Slowly and meticulously, he smoothed down the front of his shirt. There was something about him that tickled the edge of familiarity, but I couldn’t place it.
“I’ve been rude,” he sighed after a beat. “We’ve met under less-than-ideal circumstances, but introductions are important. My name is Vincent Russo, you may have heard of me.”
I didn’t blink. “Can’t say that I have.”
Briggs let out a soft, sarcastic laugh. “What about Titian?”
Roque never brought his work home. He kept it all locked away behind his steady, quiet strength—especially around the kids and even more so around me. He didn’t talk about ongoing cases or mention names or details. I knew it was his way of protecting us from the darkness he dealt with daily, and I appreciated that even if it meant I was often in the dark. So, when Briggs said the name Titian, it meant nothing to me. It was just one more piece in a puzzle that I hadn’t even seen the edges of.
But the way he said it—the smugness in his voice and the way his eyes watched me like he was waiting for something to click—told me everything I needed to know. It was an important name meant to hold weight.
I didn’t even have to speak. Russo’s eyes scanned my face, reading the confusion there with a flicker of disappointment.
“Shame,” he murmured, glancing sideways at Briggs. “I really wish you hadn’t said that.”
The shift in the room was subtle but immediate. The tension in the air thickened, stretching tight around us like a rope drawn to its limit. My spine stiffened, instincts flaring to life as the basement suddenly felt smaller, more closed in. I didn’t know what game they were playing or what they expected from me, but it didn’t matter.
Because one thing was clear: these men didn’t want me to understand, they wanted me to be afraid. I’d spent years learning to hide fear behind calm words and steady hands, and with two scared little ones depending on me to stay strong, I wasn’t about to let fear show. I wasn’t going to give them that power.
I tightened my hold around Kairo and Kaida, my voice steady despite my pulse hammering in my throat. “What do you want with us?” I asked, keeping my tone as even as I could. “There was no reason to take the kids. Whatever your issue is with Roque, they have nothing to do with it.”
Russo didn’t flinch. His expression didn’t shift into guilt or regret or anything remotely human. Instead, he looked mildly amused, like I’d just asked a rhetorical question, and he was humoring me with a reply.
“There was every reason,” he said smoothly, gesturing lazily with one hand. “When a rat’s cornered—like Roque is right now—he starts getting desperate and makes mistakes. He tries to chew his way out of the trap.”
He leaned forward slightly, voice dropping into something colder. “I want to be the trap. And when he gets caught, I’ll release him in a way that benefits me.”
I watched him closely. “You want him to work for you.”
That made him smile. Not a pleasant one, either—it was all teeth and calculation, the kind of grin you’d expect to see right before someone got sold off or buried.
“Exactly,” he agreed, as if we were just two people discussing business over coffee.