Rage

Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Sin

I finally pull in the driveway after a long ass drive. Why do Noah’s parents have to live five hours away? The drive let me think of every way I was going to make his dad pay for his treatment of Noah. Patrick Wilson is going to regret ever laying a hand on him. By the time I’m done with him… Well, let’s just say he won’t be recognizable.

I think I should be worried about my psychopathic tendencies, but it’s not like I go around killing animals. I definitely don’t just look at people and think ‘oh shit I would very much like to kill them’. I’m not that crazy. If someone fucks with something that’s mine, then they die. It’s simple really, Noah and Kieran are MINE. His father made him feel like he was doing something wrong… like he was wrong. I’m gonna show his father why that was a mistake.

When I get out of the car, I walk to Patrick’s front door. His wife is at work, still. I checked.

I knock on the door three times in rapid succession. While I’m standing there waiting, I hear footsteps approaching the door. It swings open, revealing an aging man with thinning gray hair and a sneer on his face. He is shorter than I am and looks nothing like Noah. He has age lines all over his clean-cut face.

Maybe thirty years ago, he would have resembled his son, but now not even their caramel brown eyes are the same. Noah’s are friendly, with a light in them so bright it chases away darkness. His father’s eyes are pure darkness that chases away the light. This man has no good in him. I’ve looked into his file. I pulled Noah’s medical records after our conversation. He spent a couple years in and out of the hospital, they say he “fell”. I call bullshit. His rap sheet is longer than mine, but it pays to have friends in high places.

“Who are you, and what are you doing here?” Patrick snaps.

“I’m your son’s boyfriend,” I answer with a smug smile. “Nice to meet you, Pops.”

His sneer turns into a sadistic smile. “Oh, how lovely, come in.”

I plaster on a cheery smile. I know how this is gonna go—only one of us will be alive when this door opens again. It’s gonna be me. I step into the house. The foyer has white walls with oak trim and oak floors and leads to a big living room with the same walls and floors.

“What brings you here—” he trails off, realizing I never gave him my name.

When I don’t supply my name, he turns and looks at me with a raised brow. “Well? Your name?”

“That’s not important for why I’m here,” I growl. “I’ve been informed that you were a shitty father.”

He glances at me and continues walking through the living room. “So, Noah’s crying about his childhood?”

“No. He doesn’t even know I’m here. I just didn’t like what he had to say about you.”

“So, why are you here; to tell me I was a shitty father?” he asks with a disdainful expression.

“Wrong again,” I smirk. “I’m here to kill you.”

I’m definitely not one to beat around the bush, I like to be direct.

His expression turns to one of shock before revealing his true face again. “I’m not scared of you, boy,” he says, mockingly. “What do you think you’re going to do to me?”

I laugh at him. While he scowls at me. What can I do to him? I have about sixty pounds of muscle on him, I’m three inches taller, and I’m twenty years younger.

“What’s so funny, boy?” Patrick snarls.

“Nothing,” I say as I step closer and draw back my fist. He tries to dodge, but I bring my other fist up and it connects with his temple. He falls onto the floor in a heap. He’s out cold. I grab his leg and drag him to the kitchen. I saw it as soon as we stepped into the living room; he has an open concept. I leave him on the floor and walk back to my car. Opening the trunk, I grab the backpack from it and head back inside.

I brought rope and knives and a tarp; I’ll call a cleaning crew when I leave. With my hacking skills and no evidence left behind, they will never know he’s dead. When I walk back into the kitchen, he is still lying where I left him. I drag him off the floor and put him into the chair, tying him up. When that’s all done, I go to the sink, get a cup and throw water on him, waking him up.

He groans and looks around, struggling to get free. Once he realizes he can’t, he looks up at me with pure terror and a little rage. He was all talk earlier, but now he’s a scared little man. He uses his words to try and intimidate people–the type of man who thinks just because I’m into men that I must be weak. He’s wrong of course.

I grab the piece of paper and pen out of the book bag and place it in front of him on the counter.

“What is this?” he questions.

I untie one hand and give him the pen.

“Write a letter to your son, apologizing,” I demand. When he doesn’t move, I add in a loud snarl, “NOW!”

Patrick scrambles to grab the pen. He starts writing. The letter ends up being short and to the point.

I snatch it off the table, folding it and putting it in my pocket. Grabbing the book bag, I get out a big tarp, laying it out. I grab the chair Patrick is sitting on and tip him over onto the tarp. He groans and curses under his breath, that terror bleeding back into his expression.

I grab the knife from my pocket and start cutting him, watching his blood coat my hands and the knife. He screams so loud; I have to grab a rag from the bag and shove it in his mouth. He starts to choke on it from how far back it is in his throat. I don’t wanna kill him right away; I want him to suffer first, like Noah had to do all those years ago. Muffled whimpers come from his gagged mouth. Only when his skin is split open and he’s bleeding all over the tarp do I reach for the gun in the waistband of my pants. I press it to his temple and pull the trigger. Good riddance.

I grab my phone and dial the only man I’d trust to get rid of the evidence in this house–my brother Sean. I haven’t seen him in years; not since he started working for the Cosa Nostra but Sean always said If I ever needed him just call. I think he feels obligated, since he’s older than me by eight years.

He answers after the fourth ring.

“Hello?” Sean asks.

“Hey big bro, I need a favor.”

“Okay?” he says, hesitantly.

“I need you to get a clean-up crew to the pin I’m sending you now.”

“What did you do?” he questions.

“What I had to, so… clean-up crew?” I ask, impatiently.

“Yeah, I’ll send some men to you,” he sighs in resignation.

“Nah, I won’t be here, but the wife will be in three hours,” I smirk.

“Fuck, Sinesio! Okay, fine—I’ll call the crew right now,” he replies, sounding annoyed.

“Oh, and Sean, don’t call me that!” I snap, grinding my teeth.

Our mother named me that after my piece of shit father. Sean had a loving father, the one who would pick him up and taught him how to drive. Until he died in a horrible accident.

After I end the call, I gather all my stuff and head home. Home, to Kieran and Noah.