Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 127201 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 636(@200wpm)___ 509(@250wpm)___ 424(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127201 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 636(@200wpm)___ 509(@250wpm)___ 424(@300wpm)
“I’m sorry, Miguel,” Nero whispered. “I guess… we found opposite ways of dealing with those things. But when you were with me, did you like it?”
Miguel sighed at the memory of Nero’s warm body arching to his touch, fragrant, and better than any fantasy he'd ever had. “My heart died long ago, but when I was inside you, I felt alive. As if for those few moments, your heart beat for us both.” He didn’t care if it was a corny thing to say. They were about to end up on display in the cellar of a serial killer, so what did it matter if he revealed the truth of his soul?
Nero’s breath was a rasp, and he took his time to answer, leaving Miguel to wallow in a mixture of shame and insecurity. But when he did speak, his voice sounded tender and sweet, as if it had been infused with honey. “You might be numb to your own heart but I could feel it against me. And I wanted it to beat for me, even though I don’t deserve it.”
Miguel shivered with the need to meet Nero’s gaze. He wanted to be seen, acknowledged, and craved Nero’s attention more than he’d ever desired his mother’s approval. “I will try to get you out of here even if he cuts my dick off and carves out my fucking eyes. Do you understand?”
“Thank you, Miguel. That’s more than anyone ever offered me.”
Miguel felt ill from the inability to touch him, but the moment the door at the top of the stairs to this murder basement creaked, all his attention was back on survival.
“Rise and shine my reptile friends!” Esteban said with a jovial laugh, and a second lamp came on above the table, blinding Miguel with its white light. “I hear you’re both sober enough to know exactly what’s gonna happen to you,” he said, making his way down at a languid pace, as if each step were worth savoring. The casual clothing he’d worn earlier was replaced with a white set bearing traces of stains that hadn’t been properly washed out. Blood?
”It’s only me,” Nero said. “He hates the Caimans as much as you.”
Miguel frowned because the only thing he could think of was aggravating Esteban to a point where he turned his wrath to Miguel first. He would not watch Nero die! “We both hate the Caimans. It’s why we killed Raul Moreno. Hasn’t the news reached you? We just want to disappear. Let us go and you’ll never hear of us again.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that. You will disappear.” Esteban approached a table by the wall where his despicable collection was displayed. From his position on the floor, Miguel couldn’t see what he reached for, but the sound of metal sliding against metal chilled him to the bone.
“Look, I’m Nero Moreno. The big boss’s own son. Why do you need someone like him when you already have me?” Nero asked, causing Miguel’s heart to crawl up his throat. But Esteban snorted and put away his tools, backing away into the shadows like a vampire looming around its victim.
“Still trying to save your lover boy? I overheard you two talking before you collapsed. Is that why you killed Raul, supposedly? Because he wouldn’t agree with whatever the fuck you were doing?”
Nero shook his head. “No. I didn’t need anyone’s fucking approval for that.”
When Esteban stepped back into the light, he was dragging a broom over the floor. “Good. It’s no one’s business. That’s not why you’re on this table. You’re here because the Caimans burned my father’s farm. I had to start everything from scratch. But my father suffered and would never go back to a normal life. They had to amputate his hands, you see,” Esteban told them with a scowl, and when he gestured to the wall, Miguel’s gaze followed, settling on a deep frame. The glass covering the front reflected light, but the longer he stared at the freaking thing, the more the shapes inside looked like what they’d just been discussing—disembodied hands arranged upright, with all the fingers spread wide.
A shudder of revulsion twisted in Miguel’s gut, prompting him to anticipate an opportunity to use his legs against Esteban, but the bastard remained on the other end of the table, too far for him to reach.
Miguel hoped to pick up on that thread for sympathy. “I understand your pain. The Caimans killed my father and my sisters. I led my life under Raul Moreno’s boot for years. But the Cannibal is dead, and Nero isn’t his father’s son in the way you think he is. Please don’t do this.” He didn’t even feel shame for being reduced to begging. He’d do anything to save Nero.
He pulled his knees up to seem smaller, but also so Esteban couldn’t assess how far his legs reached when stretched out. With such measly cards in his hand Miguel would not stray from using any trick up his sleeve.