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He leans back against the fridge, crossing his arms over his chest. “You say he couldn’t hurt anyone while he was behind bars, but did you consider what the men working for him would do when they figured out you were closing in on the scheme? Or did you kid yourself into thinking he worked alone?”
My throat dries.
I see spite in his eyes. The torment of harsh truths.
It sinks into me, tainting all chance of hope.
“Come on, Nissa. Take a guess at what a lowlife criminal would do with the evidence.”
“I don’t know.” I don’t want to give oxygen to the possibilities. Not when my mind has fixated on the worst possible outcome.
“But you could anticipate a reaction, right? You would’ve thought about what his men would’ve done.”
I don’t answer.
With any arrest, there are possible repercussions. Sometimes it’s inevitable. We have to weigh the odds and hope for the best.
“What do you think happens to sex slaves when the men imprisoning them think the Feds are closing in?” He pushes from the counter and stalks forward to rest his elbows on the island counter, getting closer to eye level. “What does any criminal do with evidence when they think they’re about to get caught?”
I shake my head, not letting him push my buttons. “Stop it.”
I refuse to play along to yet another game.
“That’s right, little fox.” His lips curve into a feral smile. “Finally, the truth is starting to wiggle its way through your naive concept of justice.” He mutters the words, his anger simmering below the surface. “If my father’s men had a location which they thought caused suspicion, it would’ve been burned to the ground. They would’ve killed those they couldn’t hide. Somewhere out there is a mass grave full of tortured women, and it’s the FBI’s fault.”
“No.” I keep shaking my head. “If a mass of imprisoned women were murdered, we would’ve heard about it.”
“Are you trying to tell me the Greek police have been eagerly gushing to help you? If I took a guess, I’d say they’ve fought against your investigation every step of the way, letting you know it’s their jurisdiction, not yours. Thus the basis of them only finding six victims—the bare minimum to get you assholes off their back.”
I’m loath to admit the truth. Not because being wrong is an issue, but because him being right means women have died.
He gives a sad smile, as if understanding my suffering. “The police were never going to rat on one of their biggest sources of income. Your interference only helped to line their pockets with more money.”
My stomach twists in knots, the tacos preparing to make a comeback. “Do you have proof?” My voice is weak. Fractured. “Is there evidence women were murdered?”
“I don’t need evidence to know they would’ve been disposed of. Just like I didn’t need evidence to know my father would escape. It’s logical. It’s human nature in my world.”
I’m begi
“That’s not human nature,” I whisper. “It’s psychotic.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Are all the people in your world psychopaths?” It’s a legitimate question, not an attempt at humor.
Regardless, he laughs. “I think that depends on your definition. It’s clear you’ve judged me to fit the—”
“I didn’t say that.” I may have thought it more times than I can remember, but I’ve never truly wanted to believe this man was devoid of emotion.
And I can’t now, not when my life is in his hands.
“You didn’t need to.” He sobers, turning his focus away to stare toward the living room. “You’re very good at showing your criticism with a single look.”
“Your name has been mentioned with suspicion around the deaths of many men. You’re not i
“Men,” he snarls. “Guilty men. Those who have stolen from me. Or tried to stab me in the back. Not i
“Your father shares the same family. Those sisters are his daughters. Your niece is his only grandchild. I’m sure he’d lay down his life to protect them, too; it doesn’t make him any less of a monster.”
His lip curls and I’m caught on the edge of anticipation, waiting for him to defend himself.
I want him to.
Each time he exposes me to a remorseful side, I relax a little. I don’t fear for my safety as much.
I need more of that reassurance.
God, how I need it.
“You don’t have a response?” I ask. “Aren’t you going to tell me I’m wrong?”
“You’re so fucking wrong,” he snarls. “But I’m sick of defending my reputation. It’s pointless and entirely u
“Then why am I here? Why did you risk life behind bars?”
His nostrils flare. “Because you’re going to be my proof of following through on a promise.”
The skin at my nape prickles. I’m not sure what he means, but I’m certain it’s not something I want to be a part of. “Am I meant to guess or are you going to clarify?”
“I made a vow to deal with my father—to punish him for what he’s done. And you’re going to assure those I’ve promised that I handled the situation accordingly.”
There’s so much anger in his tone. A ton of vehemence. A wealth of hate.
I swallow over the retreat of moisture in my throat.
Determination stares back at me with eyes so deep and blue.
I don’t want to ask. I don’t think I want to know.
“Nissa, I brought you here so you could see me shutting down my father’s operation.” He looks away and sucks in a deep breath, letting it out on a frustrated exhale. “I brought you here to witness his murder.”