The room was dimly lit, the only source of light a single, flickering bulb hanging from the ceiling. Shadows danced on the cracked, grimy walls, creating a claustrophobic atmosphere. The air was thick with the stench of sweat, blood, and fear. It was the kind of place where secrets were pried from unwilling lips, where desperation clung to every surface.

I stood in the center of the room, my grip firm on the man's hair. He was slumped in the chair, his body battered and bruised, each breath a struggle. His eyes, swollen and bloodshot, barely managed to stay open. Blood trickled from a cut above his eyebrow, mixing with the sweat on his face.

"I'm going to ask you one more time," I said, my voice low and dangerous. "Where is Santini?"

I yanked his head back, forcing him to look at me. His face contorted in pain, but he managed to meet my gaze. There was a flicker of defiance in his eyes, a glimmer of resistance that hadn't yet been beaten out of him.

For a moment, silence hung heavy in the air, broken only by the man's labored breathing. I could see the internal struggle playing out in his mind—the urge to protect his secrets battling against the pain and fear gnawing at him. He knew that giving up Santini could mean the end for him, but he also knew that I wasn't going to stop until I got what I wanted.

His lips trembled as he tried to form words. I loosened my grip slightly, giving him the chance to speak. He swallowed hard, his throat dry and scratchy.

"Go to hell," he spat, his voice barely more than a whisper.

I sighed, feeling a mix of frustration and pity. This man was just a pawn in a much larger game, but he was standing between me and the information I needed. I couldn't afford to waste more time.

My hand flew through the air, connecting with his cheek with a resounding crack. His head snapped to the side, and blood splattered on the wall like a grotesque piece of modern art. The sight of it didn't faze me. I had seen worse.

He groaned, trying to readjust his jaw, moving it in a grotesque mimicry of a cow chewing cud. He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, then shook his head vigorously, as if trying to clear the fog from his brain.

"You have ten seconds," I growled, my voice low and menacing.

He blinked at me, confusion clouding his eyes. He looked around the room, searching for some sign of mercy that would never come. I raised an eyebrow, then rubbed my wrist, making a fist to emphasize my point.

"Five seconds," I warned, my patience wearing thin.

"What?" His voice was louder this time, tinged with desperation. He shook his head again, staring at me with wide eyes, like an owl caught in the daylight.

"Three."

"I can't hear you!" he exclaimed, his voice a mix of panic and frustration. He twisted and turned his tied hands against the wooden chair, the ropes cutting into his flesh.

Great, now he's deaf.

I rolled my eyes and groaned, running a hand down my sweaty face. This was not how I had envisioned this interrogation going. I didn't have time for his theatrics.

I grabbed him by his torn shirt, pulling him in close until he was practically levitating in the air. My lips were inches from his ear as I spoke, my voice a deadly whisper.

"One of two things is going to happen now," I said, letting the words hang in the air like a dark promise. "You're going to tell me what I want to know, or you're going to wish you had."

His eyes widened further, if that was even possible, and he nodded frantically. The realization that his life hung by a thread seemed to finally penetrate his fog of confusion.

"Please," he whispered, his voice trembling. "I don't know anything."

I tightened my grip on his shirt, pulling him even closer. "Wrong answer," I hissed.

With a swift, powerful movement, I threw him to the ground. His body hit the cemented floor with a sickening thud, and he groaned in pain. The sound was almost drowned out by the silence that followed, a silence that held its own weight in the room.

"Clip him. And clean up the mess. I don't want leftovers like last time." My voice was cold, devoid of any emotion. I turned my back on the scene, trusting Nate to handle the rest. I dipped my hands in the bowl of water that was waiting for me, which did almost nothing to remove the blood. As I exited the cellar, or the Dungeon of Despair as Dad liked to call it, I could hear the faint sounds of Nate's preparations.

The corridor outside was narrow and dimly lit, the air heavy with a mix of mildew and something metallic—the blood, perhaps. I took a deep breath, trying to shake off the lingering tension from the room. The truth was, I had grown used to this life, but that didn't mean it ever got easier. The Dungeon of Despair had seen too many souls broken and too many lives ended, and its darkness seemed to seep into everyone who entered.

My father had always been a harsh man, a shadow looming large over our lives. He had a penchant for giving everything in our twisted little world a name, and this torture chamber was his masterpiece. I could almost hear his voice echoing in my head, praising me for the work I did, for the way I maintained control.

I pushed open a door at the end of the hallway, stepping into a small, dimly lit office. The walls were lined with old books and ledgers, the remnants of a time when our family's business was more about numbers and less about blood. I walked over to the desk, my fingers tracing the worn edges of a ledger.

Nate entered the room a few moments later, his face a mask of calm professionalism. He wiped his hands on a rag, erasing the last traces of the night's work. "It's done," he said simply.

I nodded, not needing any more details.

My own attire was bloodied, a testament to the night's grisly work. I looked like I'd just bathed in a pool of blood. The red liquid ran down my exposed elbows, pooling underneath the folded sleeves. I closed my eyes and sighed, resting my head against the headrest of my chair. The last forty-eight hours had been a blur, a relentless chase with barely a moment of rest, except for the two precious hours at Thea's.

A soft smile crept across my face at the thought of her. Thea, with her thick, luscious brown hair that moved with a grace all its own, a natural rhythm that enchanted anyone fortunate enough to witness it.

"Boss."

I could picture her curvy waist, a dimensional wonder, geometric perfection sculpted by the gods themselves.

"Boss."

Her eyes, oh, those mesmerizing eyes and their fiery, angry stares. They were absolute bliss, a paradox of passion and ire that drew me in like a moth to a flame. And those lips...

"Boss."

Those juicy lips I wanted to violate so badly. To kiss once more, to taste them again, to—

"CONRAD!"

"What?!" I snapped, my voice a growl of irritation as I tore my thoughts away from Thea and focused on Nate. He stood before me with folded arms, staring at me accusingly as if I'd stolen something precious from him.

Nate's gaze was unwavering, a silent judgment that bore into me. He was a sturdy man, built like a fortress, with a moral compass that never seemed to waver. We had been through hell and back together, yet there were times when I felt like he was my conscience personified, always there to remind me of the lines I was crossing.

"We don't have time for this, Conrad." Nate said, his tone a mix of concern and frustration.

I sighed, rubbing a hand over my tired eyes. "I know, Nate. I know. Just give me a moment."

"There's no time for moments," Nate insisted. "Santini is not going to wait for us to get our act together."

I nodded, forcing myself to stand. My body protested, muscles aching and bones creaking from the abuse I had put them through. But Nate was right. We had to keep moving.

"Get me Kline, Hunter, and Finn. I want the details of every single call made from that crook's phone."

Nate responded with a sharp nod before exiting the room, his urgency mirroring my own. I watched him go, my mind already racing ahead to the next steps. Every second counted now. As Nate disappeared down the corridor, I took a deep breath, steeling myself for what lay ahead.

I stepped out of my office and into the hallway, my strides long and fast, trying to hide my gory figure from my mother's curious eyes. She hated it when we brought business home, especially the kind that involved torture. Though she had her share of torturing and toying with people in her past, she despised the mess we left behind in the aftermath. Blood and pain were fine, as long as they were kept far from her pristine domain.

My mother was an enigma. Elegant and composed, she ruled our household with an iron will wrapped in silk. Her beauty was ageless, her eyes cold yet captivating. She had taught me much about power and control, but there were lines even she would not cross—or at least, not in her own home.

I slipped into my room, shutting the door behind me with a quiet click. The walls of my sanctuary were lined with books and mementos from a life lived on the edge. I made my way to the adjoining bathroom, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The reflection that stared back was one I barely recognized. Blood spattered my face and clothes, a macabre testament to the night's work. The adrenaline still thrummed in my veins, but the weariness was beginning to creep in.

Turning on the tap, I let the water run cold before splashing my face, watching as the crimson swirled down the drain. I scrubbed at my skin, trying to erase the evidence of violence, but some stains were more than skin-deep. They lingered in the mind, haunting the quiet moments when defenses were down.

As I cleaned up, my thoughts drifted to the next phase of our operation. Thea's face flickered in my mind once again, a beacon of warmth in the darkness. Her laughter, her touch, her fierce independence—they were my refuge, my reminder that there was more to life than this relentless pursuit of justice and vengeance.

With a final glance in the mirror, I turned away and headed back to the main part of the house. I needed to check in with Nate, to see what progress had been made. But as I stepped into the hallway, my mother appeared, her sharp eyes taking in my cleaned-up appearance with a knowing look.

"Downstairs. Now."

END OF CHAPTER TWENTY: BREAKING POINT
1924 words

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