Any Means Necessary: Chapter 3

“You look like you just stumbled out of bed,” I remark, eyeing Liam’s wrinkled shirt and unshaven face. Straight black hair falls over his forehead in disarray, a five o’clock shadow covering his usually clean-shaven face. His lack of presentation clearly not affecting his confidence, he smirks at me.

“Oh, I did just roll out of bed. It just wasn’t mine.” His dark eyebrows jump cockily. “It was a long night, I didn’t get much sleep.” Liam Caldwell spreads his arms along the back of the sofa, long legs stretched out in front of him. He looks like the cat lounging in satisfaction after eating the canary. His toothy grin begs me to ask for more details like a high school gossip. But I don’t have time to hear about his sexcapades at the moment.

“I hope you washed your hands. I don’t want your STDs getting on my couch.”

“What’s got your panties in a twist? Does it have something to do with Blondie out there?” Liam asks, nodding his head toward the door that separates my office from where Lexie sits in the living room. She can’t hear us, soundproofing each of the rooms in my apartment was one of my top priorities when I moved in. I take my privacy seriously.

“Tony decided to test my patience and made a switch.” The bastard thought he was so clever, sending Lexie in here like I wouldn’t notice. She’d rounded the kitchen corner like a curvy, blonde complication.

I should’ve known when I walked in to find the steak sizzling on the stove that Tony wasn’t the one living in my apartment, he can’t cook for shit. He doesn’t even try, instead leaving mountains of takeout containers to pile up by the trash. Drives me fucking insane, my place always smelled like day-old Kung Pao chicken when I got back into town. But Lexie’s steak was cooked perfectly.

“He thinks that—what—dangling a juicy blonde in front of you will keep you from caring?” Liam tsks in disappointment. “I never figured he was that big of a fucking idiot to run out on a contract. Especially with you.”

“He didn’t. Technically.” My grip tightens on the desk as frustration builds inside me. Tony is a coward for it, but he’s not stupid. He knew what he was doing when he set Lexie up in his place. “There’s an exigent circumstance clause in his contract that allows him to void the deal if he finds a suitable replacement who agrees to take over his position.”

“Blondie agreed to work for you?” Liam asks.

“Lexie,” I correct. “Lexie signed the agreement to take over Tony’s placement as the house-sitter.” I created the house-sitting position as a front, a ploy for tax and payment purposes. But it still counts as a position under my employment. “By legal definitions, he didn’t break the contract.”

Lexie is definitely a suitable replacement for watching my penthouse while I’m away. The house plants that now line the windows in sun-dappled greenery, the scented candles that make the whole place smell like a spa are always burning. She’s turned this place into a home in a little over two weeks—something I haven’t done in two years. It aligns with the contractual agreement exactly. And like the slimy snake he is, Tony slithered right through the tiny loophole.

“You don’t go by legal definitions,” Liam points out with a sarcastic laugh. He’s right, I don’t. I look at the details of every situation, identifying each one by weight of importance and consequence. If I feel cheated, no law will stop me. I’m meticulous.

“No, I don’t. But Tony got away clean, even by my definitions.” Tony’s ability to wriggle himself loose from my legal bonds was unexpected. I’ll never admit it, but I find it slightly impressive. As twisted as it is, I almost respect Tony for his ability to screw me over in his act of self-interest. It’s the only thing keeping him safe from my temper.

“So what does that mean for us? We’re out a medic on payroll.” Liam has a point, fueling my agitation. This isn’t part of the plan, which is unacceptable. I never allow loose ends. I need to find a skilled medical professional that I can shackle with a contract and gag with an NDA.

“Lexie is a nurse. That’s where Tony found her, at New York Presbyterian.” I’ve already considered my options, and she has potential. There’s just no telling how she would work out. The type of medical care that comes with my line of work isn’t pretty and usually comes with a certain level of violence. The pretty pink nurse on the couch in my living room isn’t what I’d call an ideal candidate.

“You really think Blondie is someone who wants to work for you?” Liam asks skeptically. “Or better yet, could you even work with her? She’s in there watching reality tv, drinking a Mountain Dew, painting her toenails sparkly pink.”

“It’s not ideal, but it’s an option. She’s a nurse who worked in the ER of the best hospital in the city. But there’s no way of knowing if our pretty pink nurse has the level of skill I need,” I muse. Testing her seems more risky than worth it, there’s no telling what would happen when she’s put under that type of pressure.

The memory of our introduction comes to mind. She’d been a deer in headlights when she rounded that corner and found me standing in my kitchen. She hadn’t freaked out, screamed, or cried. Her instincts were to threaten me with the authorities, even when she had no way of contacting anyone. Her bravado was almost amusing when she ordered me to leave when I clearly had the upper hand in the situation. She’d handled herself calmly, blinking up at me while she processed everything before responding. Then she demanded to see my ID.

The thought of how she criticized my license photo makes my lips twitch with amusement. She’s a grown woman who’s easily distracted by sparkly objects and drinks like a college student, but something in my gut tells me there’s more to Lexie than the shiny exterior she flounces around with.

“So what’s this new problem that got you back into the city?” Liam changes the subject, leaning forward to rest his arms on his thighs. I sit back in my chair and smooth my hand over my beard.

“I don’t know yet, Senator Harris was tight-lipped on the phone and insisted we meet in person. He’ll be here in an hour, I’ll have more information then.”

“Do you want me to stick around for the meeting? Or am I just here for you to look at my pretty face for a while—though I have to say, you’re no longer lacking in that department with your girl out there.” Liam and I don’t have a lot of things in common, our personalities are almost in complete opposition of each other. His habit of blurting out exactly what he’s thinking and wearing his emotions on his face like an accessory goes against my every instinct for discretion and practiced control.

He’s always found pleasure in women with more to their figure than skin and bones, one of the few things we have in common. I’m not surprised Lexie’s caught his eye, even if it’s not something he plans to act on. He knows I won’t allow it anyway. Letting Liam manwhore with people who work for me in any capacity has always been off limits, Lexie’s no exception.

“Your face doesn’t even compete,” I say, reaching into my desk drawer for the large manilla envelope. “I need you to take these contracts to Ash Walton’s residence, it’s a brownstone on 5th Ave. He’s waiting there with his security. Have him sign both copies, then deliver the one in the red file directly to Jeffrey Lindstein at the Black-Morre club uptown.”

“Ash Walton, as in the hedge fund manager? Signing a confidential contract with Lindstein, the President of American Capital Bank? Talk about juicy gossip.”

“You’re lucky you’re better at keeping your mouth closed than keeping it in your pants, Caldwell.” I deadpan, earning a grin even as he feigns a wounded expression.

“Ouch, slut shaming is hurtful.” He stands, raking a hand through his tousled hair vainly before taking the contracts. Jokes aside, I know I can trust Liam with even the most confidential information. He’s an ass about it, but he’s been nothing but loyal. Not to mention he’s the best wheelman in the country, which comes in handy in my line of work.

Opening the envelope, he thumbs through the files to familiarize himself with the contents. There’s no need to double check what I give him, he knows that, but he does anyway. It’s one of the reasons I hired him in the first place.

Following him out of my office, we step out right as Lexie is ending a phone call over at the kitchen island. The room smells faintly like nail polish, and I can see her toenails are now pink as she swings her feet absently from her perch on the stool.

“Bye, babe,” Lexie says, hanging up the phone as Liam and I walk out of my office. She turns to catch me staring, my gaze remaining steady on her as I observe and consider.

“You’re dating someone?” I ask. If she’s in a relationship, that might affect my business. Liam strolls over to the coffeemaker and helps himself to a cup, chugging it black like a frat boy at a kegger.

“Oh, no I’m single,” she replies, tucking a tendril of blonde hair behind her ear. “I was talking to my best friend, Mia.”

“You call your friend babe?” My tone is skeptical with an edge of challenge.

“What, you don’t use terms of endearment with your friends?” she asks, her brows raising with a teasing smile. Liam turns to face us, leaning against the counter as he waits for the caffeine to counter the hangover he’s fighting.

“No,” I reply flatly. Liam’s shit-eating grin spells trouble.

“Of course we do,” Liam jumps in. “Right, bestie?”

My glare is withering.

“Fuck off.” My growl only makes his grin grow.

“You have such a way with words.” Seeing the urge to shoot him cross my mind, Liam holds up his hands in surrender. “As much as I’d love to stick around for this brotherly bonding, I’m leaving while I can still walk out on my own.”

“Good idea,” I state, watching him pick the envelope of contracts from the counter.

“It was nice meeting you, Lexie. Don’t let grumpy Cal here run you off.” He shoots her a wink that makes my trigger finger twitch. Lexie’s laugh is light and easy, a cheerful response that seems to be her natural reaction to most things.

“I’m not run off that easily,” she assures him, turning her dazzling smile on me. Her attention radiates warmth and light, and I like being caught in those rays.

Liam downs one last gulp of coffee before taking a few steps backward toward the front door.

“Alright, I’m gone. These papers aren’t going to sign themselves.” He lifts his hand to salute me with the envelope, flashing Lexie his best playboy smile, before turning to leave. The sound of the front door closing announces his exit, making Lexie turn to look at me. The look on her expressive face is a mix of curiosity and humor—like we’re in on a private joke together.

“What’s that look for?” I should be irritated that she’s practically laughing at me, but I’m tempted to smile with her instead.

“Oh, nothing,” she teases. “You just have interesting friends, that’s all.”

“If you’re hoping to get Liam’s number, the answer’s no,” I inform her. “I don’t let the people who work for me get involved with each other.”

“Why not?” she seems genuinely curious, but her question doesn’t confirm or deny my suspicions.

“It’s not good for my business when things get messy. And getting involved with Liam is always messy.”

“I guess that makes sense,” she comments thoughtfully, her head tilting to one side as she regards me. “That’s fine though, he’s not my type. I don’t date anyone prettier than me.”

The idea that Liam is more attractive than Lexie in any way is laughable. But there’s no need to correct her. From what I’ve seen, Lexie is very comfortable in her generously voluptuous body.

As she should.

“I have another meeting coming in half an hour.” I change the subject before I decide to ask her what her type is. Walking over to the fridge, I pull out a chilled bottle of water.

“I’m leaving to get my nails done, so you’ll have the place to yourself for the next few hours,” she assures me. Leaning my shoulder against the fridge, my eyes move down to her freshly painted toes.

“You just did your nails. Or do you just like the fumes?”

“I’m going to get a manicure,” she says, wiggling her unpolished fingers at me. “So I had to paint my toes or else the nail techs will judge me for having crusty feet.” Her tone while explaining the impractical logic makes it sound like the most reasonable thing in the world. I don’t argue.

Lexie hops down from the stool, smoothing her pretty little dress over dangerous curves, and slips on a pair of sandals. When she steps around me to grab her purse from the counter, I’m surrounded by a delicious scent. It’s light and citrus, and smells like heaven. And, like a moth to a flame, I’m stepping closer.

She smells really fucking good.

Oblivious to the magnetism pulling me towards her, Lexie chirps a goodbye to me before heading out the door. My eyes don’t leave her until she’s out the front door, silently thanking whoever invented short pink sundresses.

My next meeting is due to arrive in less than twenty minutes, which gives me time to change. Normally I don’t care to style myself for my clientele, but working with political figures comes with a certain dress code. And right now I’m not dressed the part.

Stepping into my closet, I’m greeted by black and white. Black pants, suit coats, dress shirts, shoes, socks. A small section holds the crisp white shirts in stark contrast to the rest of my wardrobe. Black and white, the only colors I wear—save a stray pair of charcoal gray lounge pants or workout shorts.

White is clear, unforgiving. It shows every flaw, every element that touches it—and in some cases what resides beneath it. White is disarming honesty, authority. It’s a weapon I carry when it suits me.

Black is the opposite side of the same coin. Black keeps your secrets, sharing nothing but silence. The sharp darkness easily swallows the evidence of your wrongdoings—disguising your weaknesses, hiding your intentions. Taking over all other colors, black is domination and control. I usually wear black, it’s who I am.

But right now calls for white.

Stripping off the black dress shirt, I replace it with a crisp white one, buttoning the front and the cuffs to hide my tattoos. If you look closely enough, you can see the dark ink on my skin through the light material. The only people who can get close enough to notice already know who I am. Everyone else gets to see who I show them.

“Bring them in,” I say. Roscoe steps aside to let three men enter before following them in and closing the door. The two black suits are lackeys, glorified bodyguards who remain standing along the wall on either side of the door. Roscoe moves to stand diligently behind me as I rise from my office sofa to greet the man who brought me back to the city.

“Russo.” The suit he’s wearing is flashy, designer, and far more expensive than any elected official should be able to afford. US Senator of New York Richard Harris flaunts his importance any way he can. He extends his hand, the gaudy Rolex on his wrist catching the light—something I’m sure is intentional.

“Senator.” I accept his hand, shaking it firmly. “I hear you have a problem.” Walking around my desk, I get comfortable in my chair. “It must be a pretty big one if we couldn’t have this conversation over the phone. So here I am.”

Harris smoothly unbuttons his suit coat and sits opposite me, but I notice how his hand trembles ever so slightly. Something has him rattled, no matter how hard he tries to hide it. “I pulled a lot of strings to get your name, and I know your success rate. The fact that no one talks about you tells me you’re exactly who I need.”

“Are you going to tell me this problem? Mind reading has never been my preferred form of communication.”

“My daughter Lottie—Charlotte—was taken.” He clears his throat when his voice breaks with emotion. “She’s eight years old.”

“When and where?” I ask.

“Yesterday morning. Every Saturday her nanny takes her to a violin lesson, and they stop at an ice cream truck on their way home. An aggressive junkie looking for cash harassed the nanny. When she turned around, Lottie was gone.”

“You’re sure she was taken? Sometimes kids wander off.”

“Not Lottie,” Richard snaps, his stress getting the better of him. He reigns in the emotion, smoothing down his tie. “She knows better than to do something like that. Someone has her.”

“Any contact? Ransom demands?”

“None. We haven’t heard a single word.”
“Why not go to the police? Why come to me?”

“There’s a chance that whoever took her doesn’t know they have the daughter of a US Senator. I don’t need the press getting a hold of this and making things worse. We’re keeping it quiet until we know who has her.”

“I don’t have to tell you how little girls usually end up when they’re snatched off the street.”

“I don’t need a lecture about what happens in this city,” Richard snarls. “They call you the Fixer because you do what you have to in order to solve impossible problems. And judging by how much political capital I spent just to get your name, you must be the man for the job. I need my daughter back, whatever the cost.”

I stare at the man across the desk, contemplating. Snatch-and-grabs off the street come with a level of chaos that strategic kidnappings don’t have. But that also means less red tape I have to avoid in my retrieval process. My methods work best when there aren’t bureaucrats breathing down my neck. Men like this rarely approve of the lengths I go to for answers or rather how it might make them look. It’s only behind closed doors they’re the first to endorse extreme measures and quick to demand results.

Harris is notorious for cutting corners and padding pockets to get his own way, his political career is a colorful one for people who know what they’re looking at. And getting into bed with a self-serving official like the US Senator of New York is a double-edged sword—his greedy arrogance both a tool and a hindrance. He’s not nearly the most dangerous man I’ve dealt with, his status doesn’t phase me at all. But having a Senator owe me a favor could come in handy. And it all comes down to if he can pay. My results don’t come cheap.

“My methods aren’t up for discussion or negotiation,” I state. Harris nods, but his eyes narrow.

“Agreed.” I can hear the but coming before he continues.“But if I’m paying you, I expect you to keep me in the loop.”

“Emotions make things messy, and you’re too close to this,” I say calmly. “I’ll keep you informed of any progress, but you’re only as involved as I allow you to be. You don’t call the shots here, Senator. I do.”

His jaw ticks tellingly, lips pressed in a straight line. A man like Harris doesn’t enjoy being put in his place or told what to do. Power and influence means he’s used to being in charge. It’s best he realizes right now—I’m the one in control.

“Fine,” he grits through clenched teeth. “You’ll do it?”

“I require half of my fee upfront and the rest upon delivery. Get me every piece of information you have.”

Harris motions for his man by the door to step forward with a thick file.

“This is everything we have. Lottie’s photo, description, schedule, and medical history. A background on the nanny, Caroline. And our initial sweep of the area she was taken from.”

“Wire the funds, I’ll find your daughter.” I slide him the routing information, and he accepts it readily. Taking the file, I flip through it. As I scan the information to formulate a plan, Harris pulls out his phone.

“Don’t just find her, Russo. I need her back. Get her back for me, I don’t care what it takes.” As he’s speaking, my phone lights up with confirmation of his payment.

“I’ll be in touch, Senator.” I stand, holding out my hand. Richard Harris stands as well, his hand trembling tellingly against mine as he shakes it. I can see the tortured look in his somber eyes, even as he tries to present himself as calm and dignified.

He can make demands and throw his money and political weight around. But it won’t allow him to be in control of this situation, and he knows it. We both do. Instead, he’s forced to depend on a man like me to make everything better.

The moment the Senator’s gone, I’m memorizing every single detail listed in the file Harris provided. Roscoe’s already on his way to the grab site, instructed to obtain security footage from the businesses in the area of the abduction. He’s also carrying a wad of cash to grease the necessary palms to get the information we need to identify who took little Lottie.

The file reads like a scrapbook of Charlotte Harris’ life; grades in school, extracurriculars, dietary restrictions, clothing size. She’s 4’2 and sixty-one pounds, with long black hair that matches her mother’s and round green eyes. She has a heart-shaped birthmark on her left shoulder, kiwi gives her hives, and she just lost her last baby tooth on the bottom.

“It only took one camera to get a picture,” Roscoe announces when he returns, placing the rest of the petty cash on the desk to be returned to the safe. “It was a quick grab, but the man who took her’s no criminal mastermind. I’m betting it was a moment of convenience, it didn’t look planned. The fucker didn’t even bother to cover his face, and in broad daylight.”

“You got a name for me?” I accept the file Roscoe extends, flipping it open. A grainy image stares at me, the screenshot from the security footage capturing the face of little Lottie’s abductor. Wiry frame, receding hairline, and an unfortunate crooked nose. His eyes are wild as he stands frozen in the photo, his hand clamped over the eight-year-old’s mouth as he totes her the few feet from the ice cream truck to the delivery van parked in the shadows of a nearby alley. He looks familiar, a common criminal lackey hired to do the dirty jobs others don’t want their fingerprints getting on.

“Kellen Gatz,” Roscoe states, waiting for me to flip through the information he’s dug up on our kidnapper.

Just as I suspected, the man’s jacket is full of petty crime; shoplifting, grand theft auto, assault and battery. He’s been arrested a handful of times, but usually walks due to ‘lack of evidence.’ Meaning he does the dirty work for people connected enough to keep him out of trouble. Too bad for him, I have my own justice system. No one can keep him safe from my due process.

“He’s got a few outstanding warrants. Plus, he has a bad habit of putting money down on horses that don’t win. His long shots never pay off, and he can’t afford his losses.”

“You know where to find him?” I glance up to see Roscoe incline his head in confirmation. “Bring him to the club. Felix is out of town, we’ll have the place to ourselves to get answers. Take Enzo, I need this quick and clean.” I don’t need to remind Roscoe about discretion, he’s the definition of tact. He could stab someone in a crowded subway car and be gone before they even felt it.

“You got it, Boss.”

It takes Roscoe and Enzo less than six hours to bag Gatz. They said it was easy; he was stumbling around in the dark after losing another race. Probably trying to sneak out on his commitments before anyone came to collect.

Coward.

I enter the building through the back door, avoiding the crowds of drunk partiers raving in the nightclub. Pulse is one of the top nightclubs in New York, owned by Felix Rivera. Our arrangement is mutually beneficial; I keep his reckless sons from being arrested and ending up in the tabloids for their drunken, drug-fuelled rampages, and he gives me free rein over his clubs and their discreet backrooms.

“Our man of the hour,” I say, stepping into the storage room. The pulsing sounds of the busy nightclub quiet as I close the door behind me and flip the lock. The beautiful silence that falls over the room speaks to the quality of the soundproofing that’s gone into this building. Something I plan to take full advantage of. “Do you know why you’re here?”

“I’m gonna pay it back, I swear. I have a big payday coming, you’ll get your money,” Kellen grovels, pulling at the restraints keeping him secured to the chair. His eyes are just as wild in person as they were in the photo, the overhead light casting dramatic shadows over his ugly features.

“I’m not some bookie, Kellen,” I say. “I am a debt collector, just not the kind you’re used to. You took something I’m looking for. A girl.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t take any girls.”

“Even if I didn’t have video evidence proving otherwise, you’re a terrible liar. For someone who gambles so much, you really need to work on your poker face.”

“I’m telling you, you got the wrong guy.”

“Should I refresh your memory?” I hold up the picture. “You took little Charlotte while she was getting ice cream with her nanny.”

“Fuck you, I’m not saying anything.”

“If she’s not your big payday, that means you took her for another reason. For yourself. Do you like little girls, Kellen? Is that it? Couldn’t resist her pink bow and sparkly sneakers?” I lace my taunting with malice and disgust. “Maybe I should rid the world of a sick bastard who gets off on snatching little girls from the street.”

“No, hey, I’m not into that!”

“Why did you take her?” His silence stretches until I lose my patience.

With a sigh, I take a step back and nod to Roscoe. He knows what to do, his fist landing a powerful hit to Kellan’s temple, the force of it teetering the chair. I’m not going to lie, Kellen’s cry of pain is satisfying. The second punch splits his lip nicely. If Roscoe wasn’t holding back, our guest would be spitting out a few teeth right now. But Kellen is soft. I can already see he’s ready to fold, two punches are all it takes for him to crumble. Roscoe can see it too, but he gears up to take another hit for good measure.

“She fit the list,” Kellen grits out between clenched teeth. “White girl between the age of seven and nine, black hair, green eyes.” I nod to Roscoe and he steps back, lowering his fist. Stepping closer, I tower over my captive.

“Who’s list?” I ask, running a steady hand over my beard. My stare drills into him, but he struggles to glare with his battered eye already beginning to swell. He presses his lips together like that’ll keep me from getting my answers. I let out a heavy breath of disappointment. “You know I’m going to get the answer, Kellan. It’s just a matter of whether or not you get to walk out of here once I do. Don’t make me deal with killing you and just tell me who has the girl.”

“She—” he stammers. “She’s already gone.” My expression darkens.

“Who has her?” Repeating the question, my voice cuts with the fury pushing against my control. The mask is slipping, and if Kellen doesn’t give me a fucking name, he’s going to feel my full wrath.

“It was just a job, good money. They gave me a list.” The excuses are flooding from Kellen’s mouth, his self-preservation kicking in. Fucking finally. “I got debts.” His head falls forward in defeat. Roscoe walks behind him, grabbing a fistful of greasy hair, and yanks Kellen’s head up to look at me.

“Your debts just got worse. You took from the wrong family, and now you owe reparations.” My tone is ice cold. “A name. Who has the girl?” When he doesn’t answer me, I nod to Roscoe who brings a knife up to his throat.

“The Russians,” he chokes out, “Anton Kozlov.” I recognize the name. Bratva. The Russians are huge on the alcohol and sex trades. As head of the Russian Mafia, it’s Viktor Mikhailov’s territory. I’ve built a tenuous working relationship with Mikhailov over the years. This isn’t the best news, but definitely something I can work with.

“That wasn’t so hard now, was it Kellen?” Nodding to Roscoe, he reaches for the black bag—the bag that comes into play when a job requires some fucker to pay for their sins.

“I gave you the name,” Kellen stammers, tugging against his restraints. “So you’ll let me go now, right? You got what you wanted.”

“Not quite.” Those two words cut him off at the knees. “It’s time you pay your debts.”

“I don’t have any money to give you.”

“Oh, I know you don’t,” I reply evenly. “So we’ll be taking something else.”

Roscoe steps forward, the light glinting off the shiny metal hedge clippers in his hand. Kellen’s eyes latch onto the tool of torture, bugging almost out of his head. Something inside him snaps, like a rat caught in a trap. His body heaves and wrenches against his binds, the chair rocking beneath him.

“Wait, I’ll get you money! If you just give me some time, I can get you whatever you want,” he sputters, seizing when Roscoe’s approach doesn’t falter.

There’s no delaying his punishment, my mind is made up. He’ll get what he deserves, my justice carried out by Roscoe without so much as a blink.

“Trusting you would make me an idiot. You’re not leaving until you pay in full.”

Roscoe cuts the red tape securing his left wrist to the chair. Kellen yanks against the other man’s grip on his arm—eyes wild, yelping and begging.

Pitiful. 

“What the fuck are you doing? No, stop!” Kellen shouts, struggling violently.

Growing irritated with handling our guest’s panicked flailing, Roscoe slams his fist into our rodent’s stomach. Caving against the power of the punch, Kellen folds in on himself like a rag-doll. Suddenly, there’s no fight when Roscoe lifts the hand to his clippers.

Slotting the pinky between the sharp blades, my enforcer looks back at me for the go-ahead. I hold up a hand for him to pause, stepping closer to bend over the man in the chair.

“Every time you miss your precious finger, you’ll think about how much of a goddamn coward you are for taking children.”

With that, I give the signal.

The wet crunch of slicing flesh and severing bone sounds distinctly in the silent room, punctuated by Kellen’s scream of agony. Cut down to a nub, the pinky falls to the floor in a spray of blood. The yelling only lasts a few minutes before fading into mournful moaning and settles on catatonic silence. Job done, Roscoe steps back to wipe the blood from the clippers and tucks them back into the black bag.

My head tilts, feeling not an ounce of remorse as I gaze down at the subdued form dripping blood on my crisp plastic sheeting. I’m sure he’s committed acts that deserve far worse, but Lottie is the only job I’m here for. Letting my repulsion motivate me would only cause unnecessary problems, it’s a lesson I’ve learned a hundred times over. Something my father and the rest of The Family have yet to realize. Violence has its place, but there are better ways of getting what you want—and they usually require a lot less sacrifice.

“They say confession sets you free. Do you feel any lighter now?” My taunting tone barely earns a slow blink against his swollen eye. The lights are on, but no one’s home.

Standing to stare at the display of retribution sends a wave of satisfaction through me. I came here for answers and I’ll be walking out with results. Watching Kellen Gatz the kiddie-snatcher bleed was a bonus. A pretty fucking good one.

After a few minutes of silence, I turn on my heel to head to the door. I got my name, it’s time to keep moving forward. As much as I enjoyed watching the mutilation, I can’t let Kellen leave with his bone exposed. Blood trails tend to bring unwanted public attention and questions from authorities I don’t intend to answer.

“Where you going, boss?” Roscoe calls after me. I pause in the doorway.

“Without Tony, we need a new medic. Our pretty pink nurse is about to try out for the position.”