Sebastian Blake – First Person
I don't believe in redemption.
Not for men like this.
The basement of the safe house smells like sweat and bleach. My men did a quick clean-up before I got here, but the stink of fear always finds its way back into the walls.
He's tied to a chair. Shirtless. Bleeding. Breathing like a cornered animal.
I don't sit.
I don't ask questions right away.
I just stand there, coat off, sleeves rolled up, and watch him squirm.
Luca shifts beside me, calm. "Name's Ricky. One of the stepdad's runners. Helped deliver her to the auction."
I nod.
Ricky's eyes dart between us. "Look, man, I didn't touch her, alright? That wasn't my job. I just—"
My fist slams into his mouth before the sentence is finished.
He spits blood. "Jesus—!"
"You don't say her name," I murmur, low.
"I—I didn't!"
I crouch in front of him. His eyes widen.
"Tell me who hurt her," I say softly.
His lips tremble. "I—there were too many. The old man had parties. Private ones. She was—he let them…"
I already know.
I just needed to hear it from him.
I stand again.
"I'll ask once. Names."
"I can get you names!" he blurts. "All of them. I swear—just don't kill me—"
"Luca."
My second-in-command steps forward, tossing a pair of pliers onto the table with a metallic clatter.
"You get one finger per name," I say flatly. "Lie, and I start over. Lie again, and I go lower."
His scream fills the room before the first knuckle snaps.
I feel nothing.
No rage.
No satisfaction.
Just necessity.
Because when I looked at her in the backseat—curled in my jacket, too quiet to cry—I knew one thing for certain.
This wasn't revenge.
This was debt collection.
And I'm very, very good at collecting.