Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 57307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 287(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 287(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
“Fine,” he said in a tone that suggested that the subject was closed.
Jordan narrowed his eyes, studying him carefully. Damiano’s lip was split and there was an ugly bruise on his jaw, but there had to be more injuries than that. “Let me see,” he said and, ignoring the stink eye he was getting, he quickly unbuttoned Damiano’s shirt and pushed it off his wide shoulders.
He sucked a breath in when he saw the dark bruises all over his torso. He had been kicked in the ribs, repeatedly. “Is something broken?” he said, gingerly touching Damiano’s ribs.
“Just a crack or two,” Damiano said in a clipped voice. “But my shoulder is dislocated. Can you relocate it?”
Jordan winced but nodded. He spread Damiano’s jacket on the floor and gestured to it. “Lie down on your back.”
Damiano did, laying his injured arm away from his body at a ninety degree angle.
Crouching down beside him, Jordan grabbed his hand and slowly but firmly pulled until he finally felt the click of the bone setting into place and saw some of the tension leave Damiano’s face.
“Thanks,” Damiano said, closing his eyes.
Jordan stared at him for a moment. Looking down, he realized that he was still holding Damiano’s hand.
Right.
He let go—and immediately became aware of the walls around him. Fuck. This was so pathetic. He was stronger than this.
“Who are they?” Jordan said, eyeing Damiano’s hand to distract himself. It was big and fine-boned, with long, graceful fingers. The hand of a killer. “What did they want?”
Damiano didn’t open his eyes. “They want me to write a will and leave everything I own to some random person. A puppet, obviously. I declined. They got a little upset.”
Frowning, Jordan swept his gaze over him. He seemed more fatigued than a few cracked ribs and a dislocated shoulder should make such a physically fit man. “Are you hurt somewhere else?”
Damiano shook his head. “They mostly used waterboarding.”
Right. His hair was wet. Jordan had thought it was sweat.
“Sorry,” he said, grimacing. He and some of his friends had tried waterboarding for shits and giggles when they had been teenagers, and he’d never forget the sensation of drowning as water was poured over the cloth covering his mouth. He had ended up feeling claustrophobic and violently retching after just a few seconds. Damiano had been gone for so long. Jordan couldn’t imagine what kind of mental strength a man must have to endure that kind of torture for more than a few minutes.
“It’s unpleasant and exhausting, but nothing some rest won’t fix.”
“You don’t have to pretend to be fine, you know,” Jordan said, smiling wryly. “Your tough guy membership won’t be revoked if you admit you aren’t fine after hours of torture.” He chuckled. “Look at me, a mess after a few hours alone in a cellar.”
Damiano opened his eyes. “It had been just an hour, actually.”
Jordan didn’t want to believe it. It had felt like an eternity to him. “How do you know that?”
“I counted time.”
Oh.
“Did it help?”
“Not really.” Damiano studied him for a moment. “You’re trembling.”
“Of course I am,” Jordan said with a laugh. “I killed four men today, I was kidnapped by some gangsters who torture people like it’s nothing, and I’m locked in a tiny box underground. I’m cold, claustrophobic, and freaked out, and I really want to hold your hand, even though I really fucking dislike you. Of course I’m trembling.”
Damiano stared at him as if Jordan were a strange, alien creature he’d never seen. Maybe he wasn’t used to people speaking frankly and admitting weakness.
“You may hold my hand,” he said at last.
“Huh. I was told you were a sociopath incapable of empathy.”
Damiano actually smiled. “It’s not inaccurate. Panic attacks are just annoying, and I don’t want you to stink up the place if you throw up. If holding my hand prevents you from that, it’s no big sacrifice.”
“And here I was starting to think you might have a heart,” Jordan said, making a show of taking Damiano’s hand with great reluctance.
“I do,” Damiano said, closing his eyes again. “It serves to send blood to my organs.”
“No one told me you were funny.” Jordan’s unsteady breathing evened out a little as he squeezed Damiano’s hand and found the pulse at his wrist.
At least he wasn’t alone. And the fucked-up part was, he was a little glad Damiano was the person locked up with him. This man projected confidence and strength even after he was beaten up and tortured. It made him irrationally believe everything was going to be fine.
***
Everything wasn’t going fine.
Damiano was taken for torture sessions three more times that day, and each time he returned the worse for wear, even though he tried not to show it, his eyes emanating cold fury and determination despite the physical state of his body.
Jordan couldn’t even lie to himself anymore: he admired that asshole. He still thought Damiano was an arrogant dick, but his strength of character was undeniable. Jordan had always admired mental strength, and he had no doubt anymore that if there was a competition for mental fortitude, Damiano would win it easily.