The fire crackles in the hearth, casting shadows over Camilla lying so peacefully in my bed. The doctor checks her pulse once more before grabbing the remaining items from the bedside table and placing them in his bag. "She needs plenty of rest and fluids. I'll come around and check on her tomorrow."

I nod, thanking him as he leaves. Donovan goes to follow him out and I stop him. "You stay with her," I say, walking from the room. Igor stands watch outside the door and I motion for him to follow me on my way down the corridor. "I'll need the rats," I say, adjusting my cufflinks.

"Yes, boss." He falls behind me, disappearing down one of the hallways.

Tension coils around my muscles, sending a jolt of pain up my neck and along my temple. My list of enemies is extensive, however, the list of men willing to face my fury is small, and I thought I'd blotted out those men long ago. Perhaps a new player has decided to join the game? Pity for him.

Humming, I descend the stairs past the main level and down into the basement. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't looking forward to this. The hinges to the door groan in protest when I push it open. A long table sits in the middle of the room, and to it is chained the man who stabbed Camilla.

I step toward the table, smirking when my shadow falls over his face. There's not one ounce of emotion. No fear. No worries. How very stoic of him. I study him, assessing what it would be that would provoke the greatest fear. For some it's simply the idea of death but that, I've found, comes with age, and this one—his skin is still smooth, his beard not yet full... He must be twenty-two, twenty-three, perhaps? And to the young, death seems like a fleeting fantasy. Intense pain it shall be!

"Ah," I say, my voice booming around the small, concrete room, "so it's your youth that I can blame for your stupidity?"

He doesn't speak, and I take great pleasure in knowing this silence will be short-lived. Still humming, I walk to the metal cabinet at the side of the room and remove the small, glass Nippon cage. It looks like a small aquarium, but it's so much more. A thrill darts through me like an electric eel. Torture is one of the many barbaric things I've come to rather enjoy. That is why I limit it—to enhance the enjoyment.

"It's been a long while since I've had a guest in this room," I say, gliding my fingers along the smooth edge of the glass. "So, while I am quite upset at your blatant disrespect, I am also thrilled. Welcome." I smile.

The door creaks open and closed. When I turn around, Igor is crossing the room with a cardboard box tucked under his arm. The tiny squeaks and scratches from the rats inside can be heard from here.

"The rat's got his tongue, Igor," I laugh. Igor grins as he approaches the table. I place the glass box over the man's stomach with a smile. "What's your name?"

He spits at me and I lift a brow as I open the tiny door to the glass cage. I nod at Igor and he opens the cardboard box, shooing the rats inside. "I am sorry about this," I whisper to the rats.

I watch them run around inside the glass confines. The man's stomach muscles tense as their tiny feet pitter-patter over his skin. "What I want is very simple, the name of whomever sent you." I shrug. "One name, and I'll ensure your death is humane."

"Fuck you, Russian," he says. Oh, how my curiosity is piqued at his thick, Spanish accent.

"What a delight," I say, clapping my hands. "You must be from one of those dusty cartels. How amusing." The question is, why would one of the cartels believe they could topple me? Surely, this is a personal vendetta against Camilla. No man of sound mind would be so blatantly disrespectful.

Igor grabs the blowtorch from underneath the table and fires it up. The flame hisses, glowing such a perfect hue of blue and orange as I tap over the glass. "Pinky and the Brain don't appreciate the heat," I say. The man's eyes widen just a touch. I notice him swallow. "Would you like to know what's about to happen to you, or would you rather be surprised?" I smile. "I do love a surprise."

I snap my fingers and Igor steps forward, holding the blowtorch to the top of the cage. Within seconds, the rats grow frantic, scratching and clawing at the glass for several moments before they begin to dig at the man's soft flesh. He grunts against the pain.

"Tell me his name, and I'll simply have Igor decapitate you."

The longer the heat is held against the shatterproof glass, the hotter the creatures become and the direr their survival instincts grow. I watch, simply fascinated, as they tear through his skin, attempting to escape through his body. Their white fur becomes tainted with blood and I smile. "Tell me his name..." I sing next to the screaming man's ear.

"You have no idea what you're dealing with," he manages. What stamina! By now Pinky's head is mostly buried inside the man's stomach. The pain of being eaten alive by an animal attempting to save its own life must be excruciating.

When one of the rats disappears inside him, the agony in his groans are almost harmonious. It's a symphony. The hiss of the flame, the squeaking and scratching, the screams. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I take the knife from my pocket, flipping open the blade as I walk to the head of the table.

Tears stream down the man's cheek, sweat glistens on his forehead, and his face twists in grotesque pain. I press the blade against his throat. "Just think how long it will take for the rats to kill you...and you will die, I promise you that, if for no other reason than you made her bleed," I whisper. "Now, tell me his name and I can end it within a second."

His lips press together in a hard line as though he's willing himself not to speak. "The Horseman."

At the mention of his name, the noise of the blowtorch ceases. The Horseman is not real... surely... I snap my fingers at Igor and he starts the torch back up. "Don't patronize me."

"I'm not. I'm not. The Horseman." Another loud scream echoes around the room, and suddenly, fear blankets his face. "Please, please just make it stop—" Another scream.

I glance at Igor, and hold my hand up, signaling for him to lay off the blow torch. "Where does this Horseman live?"

"I don't know." The man takes a staggered breath then swallows. "I don't know... The money I was paid came from a wire transfer in New York."

"Go on..."

"I never spoke with him," he grimaces, "I was only told he was the one who put the hit out. Your name was never even mentioned, I didn't know—"

"Thank you, my friend," I whisper before slicing open his throat. I watch the blood cascade over the edge of the table in a glorious ruby waterfall. My pulse thrums in my ears. "Feed him to the dogs," I say to Igor before walking off.

My mind is a jumbled heap of conspiracy. The Horseman? The mythical sasquatch of the criminal world blamed for the ruin of so many organizations through the years. A man without a face, a name; could he possibly be after me? A smile dashes across my lips, what an honor it would be.

I'm nearly to the main level when I hear the door from a floor above open. Footsteps clang down the stairwell, followed by voices. "...and that's the problem. The boss is losing his touch."

"Well," another man responds, "she's enough to make any man lose his touch a little. I've imagined bending her over a time or two."

A low growl rumbles from my chest just as they round the stairwell. Both men stumble back, surprised by my presence. My muscles tighten, begging for release. I pull the knife from my pocket and jab one man in the jugular, a grand satisfaction rolling through me at the sight of his blood spurting against the wall when I remove the blade. The other man takes off, running up the stairs, but it's only a few moments before I catch him by the shoulder and throw him to the ground. He tumbles down the steps and I follow, smiling as I wipe the blood from the knife. "Disrespect is not tolerated," I say.

He opens his mouth to speak and I grab his tongue, aptly slicing it off. Screaming, he falls back against the wall, his hands covering his mouth, blood pouring between his fingers and down his arm. I draw my arm back, ready to cut his throat, but I stop. My chest heaves as I stare him down. I'd love nothing more than to slaughter him, but control—I must regain my control.

I thumb over my jaw and inhale before I chuck his severed tongue at him. "I should make you eat that," I say with a snarl before I open the door to the hall. My hand is covered with blood and I simply wipe it over my suit jacket before retiring to my room.

She's making me crazy. And what a feat that is.