Chapter One Hundred and Eighty-Nine

DELUCA

He was asleep.

Pathetic.

Even in chains, the bastard had the audacity to look peaceful. As if he hadn’t shattered lives, as if his hands weren’t stained with blood that screamed louder than sirens in my head.

I walked slowly toward him, my shoes crunching against the dust and gravel on the floor. The warehouse smelled of old steel, oil, and sweat—perfect for what I had in mind.

“Wake him,” I said.

One of the guards didn’t hesitate. A sharp splash of cold water had Edward jerking upright, coughing and blinking rapidly.

He looked around, disoriented. Then his eyes met mine.

And I smiled.

Not the kind of smile that offered warmth or forgiveness. No—this one was for me. Cold. Slow. Poisonous.

“Edward Dickson,” I said, drawing out each syllable like it was the start of a hymn. “You took something from me.”

His lips moved like he wanted to speak, but I didn’t give him the chance. I grabbed the steel chair across from him and sat, resting my elbows on my knees.

“Do you remember her?”