Chapter Seven. Ember #8
“Cauterize it.” The words leap out of me before I realize they even formed on my tongue.
I feel the weight of gazes on me, but mine is fixed on the reaper that stands behind the bound and bleeding Cross soldier.
Asad studies me, the silver depths impenetrable.
“If you don’t want him to bleed out too soon, cauterize his wounds,” I say again.
“I’m not new to this, ma.” He peers at me for several more seconds, then nods his head toward the sideboard. “But come here and get that blowtorch.”
I don’t mistake the order for anything other than what it is—a taunt, a challenge.
Standing from the chair, I barely pause before striding over to the tray of his tools and picking up the handheld torch. Asad doesn’t say a word, but his silver eyes gleam, daring me.
Excitement sparking through me, I move closer, not caring about the blood smearing the toes and bottoms of my House of Cross pink-and-black stilettoes.
I bend down and twist the gas cylinder before clicking the igniter.
Blue fire flashes out, as does the hiss of gas, and without hesitation, I apply the flame to the open wounds where Carter’s fingers and thumb used to be.
He writhes in the heavy armchair, his feet scrambling against the tarp-covered floor as if trying to get away from the pain. His screams bounce off the walls, echoing in the dining room in an agonized crescendo.
“Bellissima,” Julian murmurs. I’m not sure if he’s referring to the piercing screams or my technique.
Dimitri chuckles, and straightening, I glance in the direction of the table and catch the Russian Mafia head’s wide smile, as well as Naoki’s subtle nod. I don’t miss the disgust painting their wives’ faces or the hatred twisting Demarcus’s.
“That’s disappointing.” Asad tsks. “He’s passed out. Guess he couldn’t take the heat. Literally. Wake him up, ma.”
I shouldn’t feel like we’re on our Bonnie and Clyde shit …
That hint of pride in his voice shouldn’t send a tingle down my spine like a warm, big hand sliding a caress straight to the small of my back.
Neither of those should have my feet instantly moving toward the table before my brain gets the message.
But they are. And I am.
I bypass the goblets of water sitting toward the center. Instead, I nab two half-filled tumblers of whiskey and retrace my steps. Reaching Carter, I stare at his face, slack in his faint, but it’s the wounds that get doused in the alcohol.
His eyes fly open, black with pain, his mouth stretched wide on a silent scream. His back arches, looking like a tautly pulled bow until his body shudders and slams back into the chair.
“Oh good. You’re back with us.” Asad roughly pats Carter on the shoulder.
“I was worried you were crashing out on me for a minute there. Where were we?” He rounds the chair and lays the shears on the tray, then crosses his arms over his chest. “Who gave you the order to come after me? Who you working with?”
Carter’s labored breathing punctuates the air, and he shakes as if great blasts of wind buffet his body, but he remains silent.
Asad chuckles, and it’s mean, ugly.
My nipples harden, the rings going through them pinching my flesh.
“A’ight, muthafucka. Play it your way.” He looks over Carter’s head and says, “Bring them in.”
One of the Cross soldiers moves and opens one of the double doors at the back of the room.
Seconds later, a couple of men in black suits usher in an older, beautiful Black woman and a man who resembles her, appearing to be in his mid-twenties.
They wear stoic expressions until they catch sight of Carter and his fingers littering the floor.
“What the fuck?” the younger man yells. “Dad! The fuck! Uncle D, what’s going on?” He turns to Demarcus, his hands cupping the back of his head.
“Baby.” The older woman tries to approach Carter, but one of the soldiers who led her in prevents her by a firm grip on her upper arm. “Baby,” she says again, voice cracking. “What have they done to you? Why?” She looks at Asad, confusion wrinkling her face. “Why are you doing this?”
My heart twists for her, because no mother should have to see the person they birthed hurt and in pain.
But on the other hand, revulsion and anger flicker in my chest as I glance at Carter.
A man who cared about his family—especially a man in this world—wouldn’t put those he loved in this position.
If he was going to do some foul shit like betray the head of his organization, then he at least could’ve made sure his immediate family were moved out of harm’s way.
He’s been in this shit long enough to know those closest to him would be the first casualties in this war he initiated.
Hit people where they’re weakest. It’s what I would do.
“Ask your son,” Asad replies, his tone flat. He beckons her closer, and once her guard releases her, Carter’s mother rushes forward, but Asad stops her before she can touch her son. “Carter, explain to your mother why she and your son are here.”
“Ma,” he rasps.
“Prince, this is too much. They have nothing to do with this. Let them go, man,” Demarcus demands, straining against the soldiers holding him back.
But Asad ignores him, his attention fixed on Carter.
“Speak up, Carter. Tell your mother why she and her grandson gotta see you like this. Explain what their bitch-ass son and father has been up to.”
“Ay, that’s my fuck—”
From one instant to the next, Asad’s gun is out and pointed in Carter’s son’s face.
The younger man stumbles back a step, his hands flipping up.
“I wasn’t talking to you, young buck. Don’t act like you don’t know who I am.
Let disrespectful shit fly outta your mouth and you’ll be meeting your cousin in the upper room.
So shut the fuck up and listen while grown folks are talking. ”
“What? What do you mean, his cousin?” Demarcus whispers. “Tre? Are you talking about Tre? My son?”
I’m not sure how he didn’t put that together before now. Especially with the texts. But maybe the, uh, excitement of the situation didn’t allow him to piece two and two together.
“Yeah. I was going to hit you up about that. But I got distracted by finding out who was trying to take me out. Well, besides your son.” Asad switches his focus from Carter to his brother.
“I killed Tre, D. But take that shit up with your brother, not me. You read the text messages; he involved your son in what he had going on. He got him killed. Carter and whoever he was in with might as well as have pulled the fucking trigger.”
A hoarse sob rips from Demarcus, and only someone with a heart made of stone wouldn’t be moved by the grief-stricken and tortured sound.
In this moment, I want to march over to that tray, grab that machete, and chop off Carter’s hand instead of his remaining fingers.
His thoughtlessness or greed or selfishness or …
whatever cost this man his son. And might cost him their mother.
And yet, he still sits there, silent. What a whole bitch.
I take a step toward him …
“Nah, I got it.” Asad’s big hand palms my belly, holding me back.
How he knew I was about to follow through on my thoughts, I don’t know, and I don’t analyze.
Not right now when a red haze is misting my vision and static crackles in my ears.
Gently shoving me back, he grabs Carter’s mother and tugs her forward so she’s standing in front of him and her son.
The Glock lodges right up against her temple.
“You ready to tell me what I want to know now? Or are you willing to let your mother get popped over it? ’Cause make no mistake, Carter.
I will blow her fucking brains out right here in front of you and then follow up with your son.
And that’ll just be for starters. Every person you love can get it until there’s a fucking pile of bodies right at your feet.
Then I’ll go back to cutting you up until even your dead-ass mama won’t recognize her baby boy.
Is your loyalty to whoever you’re protecting worth the lives of family?
” He presses the barrel of the Glock harder against his mother’s head.
Screaming, she recoils from the barrel, twisting as if she can get away.
“Start talking or I start busting. You got five seconds.”
“Gotdammit, Carter! That’s our mama,” Demarcus yells. “Fuck them people! You done already had my son killed, bruh!”
Carter’s son is quiet, but I glimpse the war in his brown eyes—stand by his father but the love and fear for his grandmother.
I’m a little surprised no one has jumped forward to intervene on behalf of Demarcus.
His son is a treacherous piece of shit, but he didn’t seem to know anything about it.
But no soldiers step forth in his defense.
Several of them move forward, including Kareem, but to form a line behind Demarcus, as if preventing any chance of him running if he decides to take that course of action.
Most of the guests stand from the table, silent but enraptured.
“Three seconds,” Asad says.
“I—” Carter hesitates.
“I’ll fucking kill you myself!” Demarcus screams.
“One second,” Asad warns, and his fingers tighten around the trigger …
Their mother closes her eyes, her lips moving …
“Okay, okay!” Carter hoarsely yells. Resignation and pain weaken his voice, but he meets Asad’s gaze. “Let her go and I’ll tell you what you want to know.”
Asad mugs him, and I silently ball my face up, too. He’s in no bargaining position. The fuck?
“Talk, muthafucka,” Asad quietly orders without lowering his gun.
After a long moment, Carter sighs and bows his head. “Xavier. And Deacon.”