Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Menace
“This place is a fucking castle,” Hill says as we walk through Beningfield’s foyer. I tut, but he’s not wrong. The walls look to be made of fucking stone, the windows high and thick, and the staircase looking as if it’s made out of the fucking wall.
From my research, it’s been in his family since the early eighteen hundreds, when they came over and made a name for themselves. There have been a bunch of changes since then—a basement added in, appliances upgraded, and an entire wing added on in the past hundred years.
Too bad none of this opulence translates into liquid cash or assets.
“Do you want it?” I ask as we jog up the stairs on silent feet. “When all his shit goes to auction after his death, I’m sure I can get it for a steal.”
Hill looks around as if gauging the place before he frowns and shakes his head. “No, I’m good. This place feels oppressive and evil. Like a line of dickheads owned it and anyone who owns it after them will likewise be dickheads.”
I chuckle as we make our way down a long hallway to reach Beningfield’s bedroom. “We could remodel it. Maybe rent it out for some kind of high society parties.”
“That’s an idea. Let’s see how much it costs first. Gotta make it worth our while.”
Hill and I aren’t worried that one of Beningfield’s guards will be after us. When it came out that he was broke, they jumped ship since they hadn’t been paid in a while.
After the attempt on Hill’s life, Beningfield was questioned by the police.
They had nothing on him, but it would only be a matter of time before they checked his business ledger and saw a large transaction into a private banking account.
It took Hill’s people two days to find that bit of information with an incentive of ten grand and several pounds of weed.
He’d hidden it very well, buried under the cost of labor for several of his real estate holdings.
But the people Hill knows are better than Beningfield is at hiding shit.
My own people have been able to dig up tons of illegal dealings since the hit piece came out, so we have ammo against Beningfield if he wants to come at us again.
I’m sure the police will be here in the following days to arrest him.
Reporters that clamor at his gate usually leave after sundown, since Beningfield usually locks his shit down like a fortress after hours. Hill and I were sure to sneak out the back of his apartment building, so we weren’t seen leaving.
Fucking paparazzi will ruin all of our fun.
Taking his hand, I kiss the back and says, “Anything you want, little psycho.”
I mean his name now more than ever, since he basically got away with murder.
The cops reviewed the tape, saw how Hill was accosted, tried to get away, but was forced to defend himself and kill his attacker.
It was fucking beautiful. I’ve seen him kill before, but watching him kill someone right in front of their faces?
I fucked him good when we got back to my condo, dicking him so good that he forgot any words but my name.
Hill and I do nothing to muffle our arrival, but the walls are so thick that Beningfield won’t know we’re here until we wake him from his uneasy sleep.
It’s been rough for him, businesses dropping him, women coming out about his abuse, and reporters overwhelming him with phone calls. The few times he’s gone out in public over the past two weeks, he’s looked haggard and worn down, nothing like the man that snubbed me at the charity event.
And his check bounced, which pissed me off.
When we get to his bedroom, we push inside, seeing the shape of his body under the blankets.
“Wanna just shoot him now?” I ask, pissed off that I left him alive to hurt another woman and hire someone to kill my man. But it’ll be over soon.
“Gotta make it look like a suicide,” he reminds me. “But that won’t be hard. He has so much shit going on, the press will have their pick on what to blame it on.”
We’re not speaking quietly, but Beningfield still hasn’t stirred. Huffing, I walk over to his bed, and I’m almost knocked back by the scent of alcohol in the small space.
Ah, he’s passed out, not sleeping.
I hate to ruin his peace but…
…no the fuck I don’t.
I take my gun out, wishing I could pistol whip him, but knowing that will only draw questions. Instead, I take the barrel and press it hard under his chin.
Beningfield stirs, looking around as if to see what’s going on. His eyes land on me and they widen comically as he scrambles up in bed. The alcohol in his system makes him clumsy and his hands slip a few times.
Still, he gets his bearings and holds his hands up, swaying into me. “What do…” he hiccups and covers his mouth. “What do you want? Why are you in my house?”
Digging my gun harder into the soft tissue of his chin, I say, “You tried to kill my fiancé. That’s grounds for me to fucking blow your goddamn brains out.”
Hill sighs behind me. “Did you just propose?”
“Depends,” I say, not taking my eyes off Beningfield. “Will you say yes?”
“Of course I will. Did you even need to question it?”
I chuckle, feeling my chest warm. “Just wanted to be sure.” Beningfield looks stunned, like he’s never seen a proposal before. “Come on, you rapist piece of shit. We have a scene to set.”
Hill climbs onto Beningfield’s obscenely large bed and grabs him by the hair, yanking him off the other side.
Beningfield hits the floor with a thud and a cry, but Hills doesn’t care, pulling him up to his feet and pushing Beningfield in front of him.
“Walk. We want to see your office. I’m sure it’s just as lavish as the rest of this place. ”
Stumbling over his feet, Beningfield says, “Please. I have nothing left but you can take anything. Just leave.”
More than a dozen lawsuits have been filed against him, especially from the women he hurt.
Even if he had money left, he’d be bankrupt by the time they were done with him.
I don’t blame them. They were backed into a corner when they signed their NDAs, not able to do much else but try to live their lives knowing their abuser was walking around freely.
But now, they can get everything they deserve, and I hope with his death they feel some relief.
And get paid with his estate.
Beningfield has no children and the rest of his family had written him off years ago because of his terrible business practices, so he’s all alone and his estate will be handled in probate. Every red cent better go to those women.
Hill pushes Beningfield in the back until he falls flat on his face, groaning when his nose smacks into his expensive flooring.
“We don’t want shit from you. Nothing but your life.
” Before we step into his office, Hill grabs Beningfield by the hair and pulls his head back, a blade pressed to his throat.
“You tried to have me killed. Did you see that the man you hired is no longer with us? Courtesy of yours truly.”
Beningfield sobs, his shoulders quaking. “That was a mistake. I shouldn’t have—”
“Damn right you shouldn’t have,” Hill hisses, digging his knife in until blood trickles down his front. I’m not worried that some medical examiner will see the wound since that’s where we planned to shoot him. “Now let’s go see what you have in your office, shall we?”
When I had my people dig up the floor plans of this place, he found a safe built into the wall of Beningfield’s office. I’m sure there’s cash or assets in there and we have big plans for them, no matter the amount.
Beningfield trips over his feet when Hill pushes him toward a large framed picture of a French woman, his blade at one side and a Glock aimed at his head. “Open it.” Beningfield hesitates, so Hill cocks his gun. “Now.”
Hands trembling, Beningfield pulls the picture back, showing a large safe. He turns the dial to open the safe, begging us over and over not to do this. I so badly want to slap him across the mouth so he’ll shut the fuck up, but we can’t leave any unexplainable wounds behind.
When he sees we’re not going to show him any mercy, he sighs and opens the safe, revealing stacks of money and gold.
I scoff, looking at the contents. It’s probably all the money he stiffed people for. That probably means it’s untraceable.
Perfect.
“Why didn’t you run?” Hill asks, genuinely baffled.
“No passport,” I answer for Beningfield. “And no friends to help him. He fucked everyone over, so no one will stick their necks out for them.”
Beningfield sputters, trying to pull himself up to his full height. “I beg your fucking pardon.”
Hill turns his gun back on him. “You know it’s true, so cut the shit. If you had allies, you’d have left the day all your dirty laundry was aired.”
Swaying on his feet, Beningfield sputters again, begging us to spare his life.
Gripping him by the lapels, I drag him over to his chair and sit him down with force. “Shut the fuck up. For too long, you’ve gotten away with your bullshit. No more!”
Pulling a syringe from my pocket—its contents designed to disappear into the bloodstream—I inject it into his neck, watching his eyes flutter, then close. He slumps in his chair, almost falling over, but I catch him in time.
“I wish I could beat the shit out of him,” I mutter, forcefully resisting the urge to slap the taste from his mouth. “Let’s get this done so we can go. Gotta lotta money to pack up.”
Before we kill him, we set the scene for a suicide.
Going to his filing cabinet, Hill finds some files for his business dealings and places them on the desk in front of him.
I place his decanter of whiskey on his desk and fill a glass up halfway.
Then I take his hand I don’t plan to fire the gun with and wrap it around the glass, getting his fingerprints all over it.
Once that’s done, I knock the glass over, getting whiskey on his pajamas.
I check him over, ensuring I’m happy with the final result. With the liquor spilled all over his documents and open decanter nearby, not to mention that he reeks of alcohol, no one will believe this is a murder.
Hill hands me a clean gun and I arrange it in Beningfield’s hand. I tuck the barrel under his chin, step back and pull the trigger. Blood mist settles on my face, the blowback making me smile.
Beningfield’s body flops back heavily, a wet exhale leaving his lips.
“Beautiful,” Hill murmurs as he steps up beside me. He takes a wet cloth and wipes my face, cleaning all the blood from my cheeks. “I love watching you kill. Have I ever told you it’s a turn on?”
Letting Beningfield’s hand and the gun drop at my feet, I turn to him, pull Hill closer. His erection pokes my thigh, making my own grow in my jeans. “You have, but I still like hearing it.”
I take his mouth in a filthy kiss, pulling a long moan from him. I want to take him over this fucking desk, pull his pants down and bury myself in that nice, tight hole, but I don’t want to disturb anything that will make this crime scene look like anything other than a suicide.
“Come on,” I mutter against his lips, “let’s pack up this money and gold so we can get the fuck out here.”
Hill whines but gives me one last kiss and heads out the door.
We had a feeling we’d come across a windfall, so we packed some duffel bags just in case.
While Hill is gone, I start removing some of the money and bricks of gold from the safe. It’ll all be really fucking heavy, but hopefully we can take in all in one trip. I’m not keen on coming back in here.
Hill comes back about three minutes later with two duffel bags in his hand and two slung over his shoulders. “Think this will be enough?”
I shrug and take the bags from his hands. “It’ll have to work.”
We make quick work of stuffing the money and gold into the bags, the bars filling up two bags fast. All the cash fills two bags to the brim, and we have to stuff some of the bills into the side pockets.
Hill scoffs, a look of disgust on his face. “Hoarding all this money and he could have paid his fucking workers.”
“No matter,” I say, zipping the last bag. “It’ll get where it needs to go.”
Standing, I check that the safe is empty, close the door and twist the knob to reset the combination.
My gloves ensure I won’t leave fingerprints, so I’m not worried anyone will know I’m here.
Once that’s done, I grab the frame of the picture and swing it closed, making sure the safe is hidden once again.
Pulling in a deep breath, I heft the bags that have all the fucking gold, pissed that Beningfield sat on all this instead of digging himself out of debt. But I don’t try to figure out how the generational wealthy think. It’s almost like they’re not real people.
I huff and Hill looks back at me, strain etched on his face. “I swear to god I want to go back up there, revive him, and kill him all over again. Who the fuck stashes all this away when their net worth is fucking negative thirty mil?”
“Someone that didn’t want to give up their last bit of wealth. If he’d paid it back, he’d have really been broke. He was comfortable knowing he had some cash on hand.”
“Too bad it didn’t save him.”
When we get outside, we load the bags into the back, both of us rolling our shoulders to loosen up the knots the weight of all that money left behind.
We get in the car, and Hill lets out a long sigh. “How are we going to cash those gold bars? There’s a lot.”
“I know people like you know people,” I quip as I start the car. “I can have them cashed in, but it’ll take a while.”
“That’s fine. We can start the drops at the first victim’s house in the next few weeks. There should be enough to pay each woman handsomely. Then we can send more every few months until it’s all gone.”
It was Hill’s idea to count up all the money Beningfield had stashed away—if he had a stash—and pay his victims for their years of trauma.
It won’t heal anything, but it’ll help them start over if they want to get away.
He also suggested we pay any remaining hospital bills if they have them, starting with Leesa’s.
He’s so fucking generous, such a good man. I would have left it all behind, not really needing the money and not wanting to touch anything that belonged to that slimeball. But it’s a better idea if his stash goes to someone that can use it.
Taking Hill’s hand, I kiss the back and say, “I love you.”
“Your love better get me a good ring, fiancé.”
I bark a laugh. “It will. Whatever you want. As long as we’re together.”
“Always.”