Did they think I couldn’t hear them? Did they think I couldn’t hear the fucking fire crackling?

Mateo had fucked up. God, he’d fucked up so big, and he’d paid. He’d paid big. He was gone. And he’d saved me—he’d made sure I’d live.

They’d made me watch. Victor, fucking Victor, had made me watch. I glared at him sitting there now, all smug, in his perfect three-piece suit, adjusting his perfect cuffs, turning the gold links, that smirk on his face, the one I wanted to permanently wipe off. His hands were the bloodiest of all, even if he never raised a freaking finger to do the actual work of killing.

“Ready, boss,” one of his masked soldiers said. I never did see their faces.

A whimper escaped me. I didn’t want to make a sound. I didn’t want to scream. To give him the satisfaction. But I pulled as far back as I could even though the chains made it impossible to move more than a few inches.

Victor stood.

“Last chance, Gia.”

I glanced at the steaming branding iron—I wouldn’t let my gaze linger, wouldn’t let fear paralyze me. I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. But the orange glow, the smell, the heat—it scared the fuck out of me.

I turned frantic eyes on Victor. Could I pass out first? Could I piss them off enough that they’d hit me? Knock me out before they did it?

“What do you say?” Victor asked, standing close enough now to lift my face to his.

“Last chance to fuck you?” I asked, a slight tremor to my voice as the man holding the iron came so close I could smell it. And I could imagine the scent of flesh burned away by it. My flesh.

I would be strong. For Mateo. He’d been strong right up until the end.

Victor squatted down beside me and wrapped a tendril of hair around his finger, tugging. “What do you say?” His tone teased. He loved this. The fucking bastard lived for this.

“What do I say?”

He waited.

I looked him straight in the face, knowing I sealed my own fate but drawing all of my courage anyway. I spat. I spat right on his smug killer’s face.

“I say, no, thanks. You’ll kill me either way.”

The back of his hand slammed across my face so hard, stars danced before my eyes, but it wasn’t hard enough to render me unconscious.

He stood. “Stupid, arrogant bitch.” He nodded to the man holding the iron, and two other sets of hands turned me onto my side.

White-hot pain burned through me, and I opened my mouth and let out a bloodcurdling scream. The sound of the iron sizzling, the scent of charring flesh, were too much to bear.