𝗙𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗸𝗶𝗲

17 - Anchor in The Storm.

"It's harder to heal than it is to kill."

- Tamora Pierce

The smell of fear clung to Ross Donovan, intensifying with every sweat-drenched fiber of his cheap shirt. It curled my nostrils and drew a thin smirk across my lips. It was all the proof I needed, proof that sliced right through his tough demeanor. A desperate edge had creeped into his defiance and he had my ruthless apathy to thank for it. After all, this man was the one who had plunged a blade into Francesca's beloved uncle, leaving him for dead in a cold, dark cell.

I wanted answers, I wanted to know the puppeteer behind the hit, the one pulling the strings. But the scumbag before me remained tight-lipped, his teeth clenched together like a trap that refused to snap.

"Come on, Donovan," I growled. "Who put you up to this? I want a name, and I want it now."

"I didn't do shit!" He tried to roar back, his denial merely a pathetic yelp bouncing off the walls of my stash house.

"Think about your situation, Donovan." My voice retained its iron tone. "Isn't it better if I hear it from the horse's mouth? Because believe me, your friend? He's singing, pinning this whole thing on your ass." I leaned in closer, my eyes never leaving Donovan's.

Attempting to mask his fear, he retorted back with another weak claim, "I didn't do it!" His desperate words hung in the air like smoke after a gun's discharge.

I shook my head, the corners of my mouth curling up into a bemused smirk. "Every rat claims to be a saint when they're snared." Stretching out a hand, I latched onto Donovan's stained collar and hauled him up close. "You don't fool me for a second, Donovan. I wasn't born yesterday. Look at you. Beads of sweat popping on your forehead. It's a glaring neon sign flashing guilt. If you had nothing to hide, you wouldn't be sweating bullets."

The sound of my knuckles cracking echoed through the warehouse as I began to pummel Donovan. Blow after blow rained down on him, until he was a bloody, battered mess on the floor. But still, he refused to talk.

My rage had reached its climax. I felt my veins throbbing and every inch of me buzzed with frustration and fury. Donovan had to break. He had to spill the truth. Yet, something held me back, made me resist the tempting urge to snuff his life out there and then.

Murder wasn't the answer; that much was clear. As satisfying as it would have been to extinguish his lies with the last strangled breaths he'd ever draw, that would only breed more questions and more frustration. Rather, I held myself together, retracting a step and analyzing him critically from above.

"You want to die in this dingy hellhole, Donovan?" I questioned him, "Or do you want to give me what I need and get a chance at redemption?"

He coughed up blood, his body writhing in pain. But something in his eyes had changed. I saw a glimmer of regret, a desire to make amends for what he'd done.