CHAPTER 4: THIAGO

"Lock the deadbolt behind me, Sandro," I growled softly against her soft lips. "Because next time I come through that door, I won't be nearly as gentle."

She gave me a faint, heavy-lidded smile, completely dazed by what we'd just done. I let out a low groan, forcing myself to pull away and step out into the hallway before I lost my control and dragged her back onto the mattress.

The relentless woman had a grip on me, and she didn't even realize it.

My body was still burning from eating her out, my slacks fitting tight over a stubborn, persistent ridge. How am I supposed to walk into a basement like this?

I jaw tightened as I adjusted my waist belt, trying to ease the tension without drawing attention to myself. It didn't help that I could still taste the sweet, dark bite of her skin on the roof of my mouth. It sent blood straight back down to my core, tempting me to turn on my heel, kick her door open, and lose myself in her all over again.

The moment I stepped out of her secured residential tower and into the cool damp air of Porto Alegre, the heat faded into cold focus. The reminder of why I had been summoned brought a dark fog back over my mood.

"Fucking pathetic," I muttered under my breath, striding past the courtyard toward where my driver, Dariusz, sat idling in a dark, armored sedan. "Interrupted for this trash."

Dariusz immediately tucked his phone into his jacket as I approached, holding the rear door open. I slid into the leather interior and let out a harsh exhale. He caught my eye in the rearview mirror, a knowing glint in his expression, but a single glare from me made him immediately refocus on the road.

"Say a word, and you walk home without teeth," I warned quietly.

No one in the syndicate could know I had detoured from the docks to spend hours breaking down a woman against her headboard. I had strict rules about mixing business with personal distraction, rules I enforced with extreme violence.

Yet the moment I'd spotted her sitting in the low light of that lounge—her tanned shoulders bare, her slender spine curving down into the hips of a dark silk dress—every rule had dissolved. I'd needed a taste.

And she wasn't some timid, fragile thing, thank God. I had zero patience for women who broke under a heavy hand.

"Understood, Boss," Dariusz said smoothly, engaging the engine. "Where are we heading?"

"The compound," I answered, resting my head back against the seat and watching the passing streetlights of the southern hills. "Our guest is waiting."

"Ah. The accountant?"

"A very special kind of accountant."

Twenty minutes later, the sedan wound up the dense, mist-covered ridge overlooking the city lights. Tucked into the tree line sat the estate—fortified, discreet, built to look like an expansive private ranch from the high road.

"Pull up near the side gate," I told him, opening the door. "Go back to your family, Dariusz. I'll take the truck down when I'm finished."

Dariusz looked relieved, nodding respectfully. "Appreciate it, Mr. Krause."

I waved him off, stepping onto the stone path. The night air was heavy, but I moved briskly past the armed guards posted along the perimeter, acknowledging their crisp salutes with a slight nod. I checked my wrist: 01:40. Late, precisely how I preferred my business conducted.

"Took your sweet time," a voice called out from the archway.

My younger brother—and my undisputed second-in-command—stood leaning against the doorway, looking exasperated. If he hadn't shared my father's blood, I would have severed his tongue months ago for taking that tone with me. I glared at him, but he only flashed a sharp, arrogant smirk.

"Mind your mouth, Iago," I growled, stepping past him into the marble foyer. "I'm not in the mood to pull teeth tonight."

"You should mind your hair," Iago shot back, trailing right beside me. "You look like you just crawled out from between someone's sheets."

He reached out to mess with my collar, but I slapped his hand away, my brows pulling together.

"Drop it," I muttered, slicking back my hair with one palm and taking a deep breath to center myself.

Iago was three years younger, built leaner, and bore our mother's pale hair and carefree demeanor. Where I was clinical and heavy-handed, Iago was wildly unpredictable—a complete psychopath with a blade, but far too efficient to replace.

"Relax, big brother. Your dirty little secret is safe," Iago teased, leaning in with a conspiratorial whisper. "Though you might want to wipe her perfume off your throat before you try playing the big bad wolf down there."

My hand instinctively moved toward my neck, and Iago burst into a fit of breathless laughter, doubling over right in the hallway. My jaw clenched tight, but a reluctant, bitter breath escaped my nose.

The bastard would be the death of me.

"Hilarious," I gritted out, slapping the back of his head with enough force to stagger him. "You're infuriating."

"You adore me," Iago called out, rubbing his head as I turned into the main floor restroom to wash my hands and face.

I scrubbed my skin with freezing water, needing to erase every lingering trace of Sandro's scent and softness before I went below. When I stepped back out into the hall, Iago was leaning against the wall waiting, tossing two small, bone-handled switchblades from hand to hand.

"He's in the sub-cell," Iago said, pushing off the wall to stride alongside me down the rear stairwell. "Brought him in through the north tunnel so none of the domestic staff saw him."

"How is he?"

"Terrified. Annoying." Iago held up the two blades, their steel catching the low light of the cellar corridor. "I can't decide which one to use. The curved tip gives cleaner lines, but the flat edge makes a much better sound when it hits bone."

"Use the curved one," I said flatly as we reached the heavy steel door at the end of the hall. "It's in your left hand. You always favor it."

The guard on duty unlatched the heavy deadbolt and stepped aside. I pushed the door open, flicking on the single overhead bulb.

Bound tightly to an iron chair in the center of the damp room sat a middle-aged man. A heavy rag was stuffed into his mouth, his expensive linen shirt soaked with cold sweat and torn at the collar. He looked utterly wrecked.

"Ah, Mr. Santos," I said, my tone eerily polite as I stepped into the room. "So good of you to join us."

The man—Isaac Santos—muffled a frantic scream into the gag, his eyes wide with blind panic as his body thrashed against the iron frame.

I unbuttoned my dark suit jacket, draped it over a dry rack in the corner, and rolled my sleeves past my forearms. I pulled a pair of heavy leather work gloves over my fingers while Iago casually stepped up behind Isaac and pulled the gag free.

"Please!" Isaac gasped immediately, his voice hoarse, blood dripping from a small cut on his chin. "Please, listen to me! You have the wrong person! I'm an accountant, I don't—"

I dragged a heavy wooden stool across the concrete floor, set it directly in front of him, and sat down, leaning forward with my forearms resting on my knees.

"Your name is Isaac, correct?" I asked softly.

"Yes! Yes, Isaac Santos! Look at my wallet, I don't owe anyone—"

"Quiet," I stated.

Behind him, Iago flicked the bone-handled blade open with a crisp snap. He grabbed Isaac by the hair, dragging the cold edge lightly across his cheekbone, leaving a shallow, dark red line. Isaac shrieked in agony, his body shaking violently against the restraint.

"I ask the questions, Isaac," I said, tilting my head slightly as I observed him. "Do you know why you're sitting in my basement?"

"No! I swear to God, no! Is it about the firm? The tax records?" he whimpered, tears cutting clean tracks through the dirt on his face. "I have a family! A wife, two daughters—"

I reached behind my back, unholstered the heavy silver piece from my waistband, and held it casually across my lap.

"Your wife," I corrected coldly, "is precisely why you are sitting here."

Isaac froze, his frantic rambling dying in his throat. He blinked, confusion flickering across his face. "My... my wife? Renata? Did she... did she take out a loan with you?"

Before he could finish the thought, Iago brought his fist down sideways, breaking Isaac's nose with a sickening crack. Crimson sprayed across the front of his torn shirt, and Isaac let out a choked, gurgling scream.

"Keep your mouth shut until you're spoken to," Iago purred softly into his ear.

"Renata didn't take a loan, Isaac," I said, standing up to tower over him. The air in the room instantly grew oppressive. "Renata brought me three years of recorded audio, medical reports, and two million in offshore bonds. She paid me to ensure that the man who hit her, locked her in her own house, and spent four years abusing her vanishes entirely from southern Brazil."

Isaac's mouth hung open, blood leaking over his teeth. Then, slowly, the pathetic terror melted away, replaced by an ugly, arrogant sneer.

"That stupid, ungrateful bitch," Isaac spat, wiping his bleeding nose against his shoulder. "I gave her everything. I made her. She thinks a couple of mobsters are going to—"

CLACK.

I rack-slid the slide of my firearm, the sharp mechanical sound cutting him off instantly. I placed the warm barrel directly against his knee and pulled the trigger without a fraction of a second's hesitation.

The gunshot roared in the small enclosure, echoing off the concrete walls. Isaac screamed until his vocal cords shredded, his body twisting in agony as blood gushed from his shattered kneecap. He sagged forward against the ropes, slipping rapidly toward unconsciousness.

I eased the hammer back down and tucked the gun into my waistband.

"Change of plans," I told my brother, turning toward the heavy door. "Keep him conscious for three days. Let him think about his marriage."

"Oh, I am going to thoroughly enjoy this, Thiago," Iago laughed, running the edge of his blade across his own thumb to test the sharpness.

"Please!" Isaac sobbed, a pitiful, broken wheeze escaping his chest. "I'll double what she paid! I'll give you everything in the firm's accounts!"

"He said he isn't taking your money, friend," Iago growled, seizing Isaac by the hair and forcing his head backward. "Now shut up before I carve your tongue out first."

"Don't kill him until Friday," I instructed Iago before stepping out into the cool corridor, shutting the thick steel door behind me to muffle the fresh wave of screams.

As I walked up the cellar stairs, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out to see a notification from an encrypted, burner address.

A single line sat on the screen:

Is it done?

I typed back a single word before locking the screen:

Underway.