Torvic squirmed. The realization hit him hard like a rabbit punch to the stomach; he was going to die – probably a horrific death too. He turned his head to his eldest son who was paralysed like a deer caught in the headlights. Eyes glued to the woman, he looked traumatized. Annoyance pricked him. His son should be harder, not sitting there looking afraid. He’d instilled into them his mantra: ‘Show no fear, Son, until the very end. In that way, you show people what you are made of.’ He turned his head to his youngest son, the apple of his eye. The sleek, clever, and perilous one. The son he was most proud of. The one who would have taken over his business once he’d taken control of all the manors. There was no expression on his face; he still appeared cool and calm like a praying mantis, just there watching and listening, with no sweat on his brow, no trembling of his hands, but just a dead soul – exactly how Torvic liked him.

The sound of heavy footsteps approaching pulled Torvic’s gaze away from his son to face the man who owned those boots. He looked up to find a colossus with deep brooding eyes and a heavy brow that knotted together in anger. If there was such a thing as the Devil, Torvic was now coldly staring at his face.

‘Meet the Machine, the real McCoy!’ said Zara.

For the first time, Torvic’s youngest son showed a reaction. Torvic could sense his son’s breathing increase; he turned his head to see his nostrils flaring, his face redden, and his eyes protrude.

Torvic wasn’t surprised or even shocked as to who the real holder of this name was: he knew all along and so did his sons.

‘The day of reckoning has finally arrived, Alastair,’ said Lance, with a deep, gruff voice. ‘There is only one thing I can thank you for, and that is fucking my ex-wife. You suited each other perfectly. You’re a cunt and she’s a bitch. But there’s only one fucking cunting thing I want to know!’ His breathing was noisy as his anger increased. ‘Which one of you killed my daughter?’

‘Willie, would you remove their gags, please!’ ordered Zara.

Lance stood towering over them like a bear ready to bite their heads off, but he stepped back when he saw Willie Ritz, the nutcase, appear, wielding his diver’s knife. The man was too reckless to get in his way when he had that tool in his hand.

‘With pleasure, Zara!’ Willie laughed, with his madman’s high-pitched chuckle.

Alastair was the first to have his gag cut loose, but the blade didn’t just slice the fabric, it sliced a deep line down Alastair’s cheek. He didn’t scream – he merely flinched slightly.

Zara raised her brow: the man was harder than she’d given him credit for.