Chapter 19 #3
"Tell me what we want to hear, and I'll ensure she dies quickly and painlessly.
" I won't bother to make promises that she'll be safe and untouched.
It's not in my nature to lie. He knows his whole family will be branded traitors, and must be disposed of.
It's the only way to ensure some son or daughter doesn't come back later to bite us in the ass.
"Eastern shipments, all of them! I... gave them.
.. dates and carriers. They... wanted a way.
.. to trap your... father." My father? This fucker was selling out my miserable cunt of a dad. Well, fuck, I should reward him for that. I’d love to see my father sitting behind the bars of a cell for all eternity, or better yet, at the bottom of some godforsaken sea, rotting and feeding sharks.
"Who else?" Cross questions, as he comes closer.
"Cabanos! I gave them their gun mules... the feds know... the location of the... safe house." Huge gasps fill the air in desperation, as he struggles to breathe.
"Motherfucker!" Diego yells and approaches the table. "I'll see you in hell, fucker, and don't bother to hide, I'm the fucking devil." He turns away and starts heading toward the door. "Julia, Vamos!"
Julia's glance meets Cross and River’s before meeting mine. She blows me a kiss. "Adios, guapo. I'll be seeing you again soon."
"The fuck you will, Cherub! I'll rip his fucking heart out. I'm going to find a fucking nunnery to lock you in, Julia!" Diego rages with exasperation as he waits for her.
"Papi, you know I'll just fuck and corrupt the nuns, that's not the threat you think it is," Julia replies, as she walks toward the entrance ahead of her father, and his accompanying men, and their voices trail off, before the warehouse door slams behind them.
"Good luck to whatever stupid fucker ends up with her, they ain't living very long. That's for fucking sure," Cross mumbles.
“He’s fucking done. Stop, Damon,” River’s voice cuts through the space, filled with ice and irritation, as he watches me poking my fingers along the cuts in the mole's flesh, widening and tearing them further, and causing more blood to cover the surfaces, and spray up onto me, until my chin is dripping with a crimson river.
He doesn’t bother to shout. He states his words as if he knows I will obey him, and that fucking irks me.
He’s tired of the animalism in the room.
He’s weary of how the edges of us fray into monsters whenever someone betrays Mayhem.
His eyes flick to me, and then over to Cross, and in that glance, I see a man who still remembers rules and morality, for how long I can't say.
Everything in our world is destruction, and meant to reshape us into unfeeling killers.
I could continue to take the mole apart, and leave him in pieces, until his life force slides into the drain, or I could make it quick, cold, and righteous, but River wants the clean break.
I desire something else; my cravings remain unsatisfied.
My interaction with the Unhinged Princess earlier has heightened all my emotions, and the need to spill blood without mercy is overwhelming me.
The shadows inside my head swell at the idea of cruelty, and they want to hear more names sizzle on his tongue.
I require all the lies to burn away, and the truth to sit like black coal between us, the same shade as my soul.
I disregard River's silent request and head toward the mole's cock, the blade dragging along the surface of his skin, and the edges of hunger roaring like waves of depravity inside of me.
The mole utters fevered prayers in barely there whispers, but no benevolent god is listening, and his soul won't be saved.
I cut open his nut sack, the contents sliding out like meaty, bloody prunes onto the surface of the table, and marinating in his urine.
Cross roars like a beast when the man mentions more routes, the truths he spilled about our organization to our enemies.
I grasp onto his measly cock and saw through the tissue, my fingers becoming slippery with his blood, and when it finally tears loose, I hold it tightly and squeeze, enjoying the feel of it in my clenched palm.
The man on the table trembles viciously, as if he can already feel the night closing in.
He begs with pitiful, ragged, silent screams, and invents loyalty he never had, for clemency.
His breath is jagged, and his voice is but a whisper as he details a street, and then another name of someone else who may have betrayed us.
The name is spoken small, and without courage or conviction, and suddenly everything in me grows large, heinous, and filled with fury.
There are others, fuck. Maggots that have betrayed their masters.
I can feel the net of it tightening around us, the places we thought safe now dotted like open wounds, festering and spilling their contents.
The writhing voices of the shadows go mad with triumph, their whispers like small knives, demanding death to all those who are false.
Anyone who has betrayed their oath to Mayhem is taking their last breaths, they screech.
Cross and I exchange looks, each of us calculating the cost this Judas has exacted from us.
I slam the meaty tissue of the mole's cock between his lips, using my fingers to push it further down into his throat, until choking noises fill my ears.
"That's it, swallow for me, fucker." I place my hand over his lips, to prevent him from being able to push it back out.
The man can barely breathe, his body seizing on the table with all the pain, wounds, and blood loss.
It's such a stunning sight to watch, someone in their last throes of living, knowing that they're about to die, and that only darkness will meet them wherever they’re heading.
His eyes roll, and eyelids flicker rapidly, as the sounds begin to fade behind my palm. Almost done now.
River shakes his head, filled with disdain.
“Enough, Damon,” he says, the two words like a sentence, as if they will hinder my own needs to please him.
His mouth is a machine of judgment. It doesn’t matter that I want the voices quieted in the way only suffering will do.
It doesn’t matter that Cross’s hands twitch raw and eager, with his own restrained bloodlust and fury.
River’s pragmatism slices through me like a cold blade, the shadows pipe down, and I hear a quieter voice, the one that says survival is a ledger, and a ledger must be balanced.
Outside, the city continues to breathe, filled with sirens, bars, neon lights, and people sleeping soundlessly and safely in their beds.
Inside this place, under the sterile glare, we decide what happens, who lives and dies.
I wrap both my hands tightly around the mole's neck, choking him and forcing the light from his eyes, while never breaking our connection.
I need to be the last thing he glimpses before he meets nothingness.
The shadows applaud loudly, urging me on.
The drain waits for what our hands will leave behind.
I look down at the mole and feel nothing on the surface but a prolonged, cold exhaustion that tastes like sour metal.
When he finally stops moving, and his eyes stare back at me like dead fish, I release my grip and unbutton my pants.
The shadowy voices instantly flood back, louder now because they know their appetite is damn near sated.
I hum with them, half-prayer, half-madness as I force the mole's face toward my aching, hard cock.
I'm not a liar, and I did make a promise to fuck all his holes, and his mouth will still be warm.
What better place to start than the instrument he used to betray us?
No one fucks with Mayhem and survives. He'll be a warning to the others that I'm coming for them.