Chapter 12 #2
Santino dropped into a crouch in front of the pair. “Sure I can. You’re weak.” He rocked to his feet and shot out a leg, kicking the little shit straight in the face and sending him sprawling backward. Blood sprayed the air.
Osamu made a noise of protest.
“Now, let me explain to you the depth of your problem here, Osamu.” Santino grabbed the man by the nearest sleeve and hauled him up and away from the bleeding manchild.
When their gazes clashed, Osamu’s wild and desperate, Santino continued.
“Reiko is mine now, which means any threats against her I take not only seriously, but personally. Because you’re not only threatening a woman you despise, you’re threatening the woman I’m going to marry—you’re threatening the future of the whole Guerra family.
So, Osamu, when you thought you’d stretch your wallet and play mafioso, you made a big mistake.
” He let his tone harden. “You crossed a real one.”
The naturally shorter man wilted like a dying flower, shrinking in Santino’s hold as horror settled on his face.
Hiroto groaned, the sound full of pain. “Tou”—he coughed and tried again—“Otō-san?”
Osamu tensed and snapped his head around. “Damare!”
Santino clicked his tongue, pivoted on his heel, and tossed Osamu to the floor. “It’s rude to talk about someone in front of them in a language they don’t speak.”
“Hiroto was just calling for his daddy,” Reiko offered from across the room. “Who told him to shut up.” There was an amused smile toying with her lips when Santino glanced her way, and the sight of it lightened his chest.
He tipped his head to her. “Beautiful and helpful. Fucking perfect.” He dropped the heel of his shoe onto Osamu’s shoulder and ground it down with his full weight.
“Shame we couldn’t get along, Pops.” He leaned onto his punishing leg, the music of Osamu’s pained groan as it leaked out through a visibly clenched jaw pulling a terrible smile to his lips.
“What was that? Something you wanted to say?”
Shuffling behind him alerted Santino that Hiroto may finally have started thinking past the bump on his head.
Reiko gasped.
Santino twisted on instinct, worried the fucking dimwit had tried going for her, and a stapler sailed past where his head had been. A damn handheld stapler.
The momentum caused the already-unsteady Hiroto to topple forward and crash on top of his father, who took more damage than Santino probably would have from the boy’s weakly wielded weapon of choice.
The scene was fucking hilarious, so Santino tipped his head back and released a loud, mocking laugh.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d personally dealt with such amateurs.
Well, arguably Charles had been an amateur. That was hardly the point.
“Junior, that was the funniest fucking thing I’ve seen all week,” Santino said, toeing the dropped stapler out of reach. “Lame as shit, but funny.”
One of them grunted, then the other, and Hiroto managed a wheezy, “Fuck you.”
Santino’s grin only broadened. “Ah, now we’re getting somewhere.” He bent down, grabbed Hiroto by the back of his shirt, and heaved the younger male sharply into the front side of Osamu’s desk. Again, Hiroto’s head took a blow. Again, blood smeared. Again, the boy went limp. Weak.
“P-please,” Osamu said, already begging, as he fought to push himself to his knees. “Please, don’t kill my boy. Hiroto’s just a child. A good son. He’s only done what he was asked—what he was raised to do.”
Santino rounded back on the infuriating man and dropped into a crouch, bringing them closer to eye-level.
He tilted his head. “He’s twenty-three and plenty well-educated enough to know that there were a shit-ton of legal repercussions waiting if your hitman squealed.
Not that that matters, because neither of you has to worry about the law now.
” He slipped his hand to his back, tugged up his shirt, and extracted the toy he’d brought along for the occasion.
If Reiko had felt it through the fabric earlier, she hadn’t reacted.
Regardless, he suspected she would appreciate the poetry.
Osamu’s eyes widened as Santino lifted the serrated steak knife. The print on the base of the steel was faded enough to show the blade was less than new, and that made it better.
Without breaking from the bastard’s stare, Santino said, “I pilfered this from Reiko’s kitchen before we left. She’s not going to need that old set anymore, so I thought, since we’re having this family reunion, we might as well do it with a bang.”
Osamu opened his mouth as Santino lunged.
The old man didn’t move fast enough. They toppled together to the floor, Santino’s free hand clamping down on Osamu’s mouth to muffle his scream even as the knife tore through fabric and bit roughly into flesh and muscle.
It was not a smooth process. Osamu did not hold still.
Santino used his legs to better pin him, pushed Osamu’s head into the floor with the hand still pressing against his disgustingly salivating mouth, and adjusted his grip on the knife handle so he could dig it in deeper.
The second wave of muted, agonizing screaming was worth the slobber.
He held himself still, let the bastard’s blood puddle up and coat his fingers as it rolled to the floor.
Finally, Osamu seemed to compose himself just a bit, and Santino removed his hand from the man’s mouth.
He took the time to wipe it dramatically on the shoulder of Osamu’s shirt, where no other stains were yet present, and met the old man’s strained stare.
“You know what this is, don’t you?” He tapped the handle of the blade with one bloodied finger.
“This is karma, motherfucker.” He leaned fully over the man, getting in his face.
“This is where her scar is from the day she nearly died, trying to become what she thought you wanted her to be.”
Osamu’s face twisted, confusion and outrage mixing with the agony, but all he did was breathe a little heavier.
Santino rocked back, grabbed the man’s lapels, and hauled him up to sitting without care for how much it would hurt.
Of course, Osamu let out a strangled scream. But he hadn’t regained his breath yet, so it wasn’t half what it might have been.
Santino dragged him back until there was a wall he could lean the man against, patted Osamu on the cheek, and quipped, “Don’t worry.
It’s fucking hard to slice open the intestines with a blade like that, so for as much as it hurts, you won’t bleed out.
Not unless we left you here for a long damn time. Which we won’t.”
Without waiting for a response to that taunt, Santino turned and made his way to the once-again-groaning form of spoiled Hiroto.
He pulled the manchild away from where he’d slumped awkwardly against the desk and hauled Hiroto onto his knees, curling an arm around his throat in a lock the kid couldn’t have broken at full strength.
“Wakey wakey, princess. Let Pops take a look at you.”
Osamu made a sound of protest and tried to move, which turned immediately into a sound of pain.
Hiroto tensed as awareness returned to him. Again, he called for his father.
Santino tightened his arm and leaned close so he could breathe down the back of the prick’s neck. “See anything new? Does it look familiar? Déjà vu, maybe?”
Hiroto was breathing hard by the time Santino finished his taunt. “What’ve you done?” he asked, the words faintly slurred from one too many blows to the head.
“Oh, nothing much yet.” Santino loosened his grip and patted the top of Hiroto’s head with his free hand.
He dragged his gaze back across to Osamu, who eyed them with open trepidation.
“Now, Pops, I’m sure I don’t know the full extent of all the shit you put my fiancée through.
So, it’s not going to be possible for me to balance the score here, and I have to admit, that’s gonna eat at me.
” He twisted his fingers in Hiroto’s hair and pulled enough to make the little bastard uncomfortable.
“But I do know the gist. And the gist is, you only ever loved this spoiled shit, right?”
Osamu groaned something in Japanese, one arm half-rising before the pain stopped him. He was catching on.
Hiroto reached up, trying once more to pry Santino’s hands from his body. And once again failing.
Santino held Osamu’s stare. “Since he is what you value most, I’m going to make you watch the life leave him. I’m going to make you look at his corpse, on your floor, and know it’s your goddamn fault. And only then will I end you.”
Hiroto found the strength to fight harder, finally squirming like a man with something to fight for.
Osamu coughed, winced, and pushed out words through the pain he clearly couldn’t handle. “Please … spare my son. Onegaishimasu.”
Hiroto grunted, cursing and spitting as he twisted the best he could without snapping his own neck. It didn’t help him that Santino was also kneeling on one of his legs.
Santino tapped a finger over the top of Hiroto’s forehead, just shy of a blood smear, as if in thought. “How many times did she beg, Osamu? How often did little Reiko beg for clean clothes, good clothes, a goddamn decent place to sleep, or maybe a hug? Do you remember?”
Santino wasn’t surprised that Osamu made no attempt to answer.
He was a bit surprised when Reiko did, her voice reassuringly steady. “I had learned better than to beg, for anything, before Hiroto was even one.”
Hiroto’s squirming lessened for several poignant seconds, as if some portion of his brain functioned well enough to understand that her words meant nothing good for him.
Santino cut his eyes to her, to estimate how she was handling the scene. He’d told her what he’d do—generically—but that was a far cry from seeing it unfold. He wouldn’t have blamed her if she’d chosen to step out entirely, but he was proud as hell of her that she hadn’t yet.
In the moment he looked away, her father got stupid again.