Chapter 11 Bane #3
Jameson’s hand moved fast as he swiped a knife to stab into Kraw’s other hand. And as the fucker wailed, Jameson stood up to finish the job, but I lifted a hand. “Jameson. Let me handle it. We don’t need a civil war at the dinner table.”
“Handle what?” Zarelli growled.
“For one, the fact that your nephew keeps talking out of turn.” My gaze landed on Stefano. “And two, the fact that you think you can still order Bianca around.”
“After arriving late, she’d never get special treatment at my table,” he hissed.
Was that his flex? I leaned forward, elbows on the table.
“She’s never considered late to my table because dinner doesn’t start until she walks in.
We wait for her—and every woman—until they arrive.
She wants dinner to start two hours late, you’ll fucking wait whether she’s your daughter or not. Know why?”
His breath came heavier now, nostrils flaring, but I didn’t care. “Because she’s mine now. Not yours. And I’ll be damned if you think she’s going to answer to you.”
I turned my head just enough to catch Bianca’s eyes. “Eat whatever you want, leave the rest of the mess on your plate for your father to clean up.”
“You just want a piece of her,” Krawson grumbled loud enough for the whole table to hear.
The breath I drew in was slow, deliberate. “Repeat that.”
“What?” he stuttered, pale.
“I said repeat it to the whole table, Kraw. I want everyone to know what you said before I remove that small brain from that large skull of yours.”
He scoffed, “Please.”
I pushed back from the table, slow and measured. The sound of my chair legs dragging across the marble floor made the servers bolt from the room. My security shifted; everyone else tensed.
I cataloged Bianca’s every movement. Jameson’s arm had settled on the back of her chair while he leaned in to whisper something to her. She shook her head slowly, her blue eyes meeting mine as she murmured, “I’ll stay.”
That monster in me—the one that loved violence—rattled out of its cage and sighed a breath of relief at her bravery, at her wanting to witness what I was about to do.
I hated how bad I still had it for her.
Her pretty eyes darted from Krawson to her father and back to me, tracking me as I moved around the table. Krawson pulled the knife from his hand to get to his feet, trying to apologize now, but my men blocked his path.
“You think you can disrespect a woman at my table, and I won’t put your skull up in my office with others?” I asked.
It’d become a bit of a story how I collected them.
They lined the walls like crown molding and decorated my shelves beautifully.
Bleached. Sanitized. Arranged as if they were decor.
They were trophies—my trophies. Each one held a warning though because each one had belonged to a man who thought he could cross me.
“You … you can’t threaten me like that,” Krawson trembled.
I reached behind me and took the blade from the sheath at my belt. “I warned you in the other room, Kraw, that this would be your last meal.”
My security grabbed him, forcing him back into the chair.
Zarelli stammered an apology, but I glanced at Jameson who knew exactly what to do.
He pulled his Glock and leveled it at Zarelli.
“Don’t interfere, old man. We give you grace because of your granddad but for no other reason.
He’s got every right to put a bullet in your head and so do I after you manipulated deals with us and now the port to your benefit. ”
That shut him up.
The room went quiet except for Krawson’s ragged breathing.
And then I moved behind him while my security held his hair.
He screamed at first but then the only sound that could be heard was my knife biting into his flesh, the curdling scream, the splatter of blood over tablecloth and china, and then the sawing of cartilage.
I wanted that skull. I wanted everyone to know it.
Blood misted across the table, over the food, onto Bianca’s dress, and dotted her skin. She sat very still, lips parted, but no sound coming out. Her cheeks were flushed—not just with shock but something more primal as she looked at me wiping away the bloody droplets from my cheek.
My brother walked in then, his shoes clicking over marble and they didn’t break their rhythm even as he saw the scene. “Well, I guess you didn’t care to avoid the mess even in our own resort, Bane.” He tsked. He went straight to Bianca’s side, eyes scanning her. “You okay, Bianca?”
“Of course.” She glanced at her mother who was crying and shaking her head at Bianca.
Then she looked across the table at Angela who was shaking.
Bianca’s hands were now steady as she dabbed the napkin at the corners of her mouth, composure in place like she could handle my violence as long as it was real.
She rose slowly. “If you’ll excuse me, though, I need to use the restroom. ”
Before she left, she bent slightly toward Jameson, voice soft. “Will you be here much longer?”
“Leaving now.” He stood and gave her a brief hug.
She murmured, “Keep taking care of that daughter of yours. She needs her daddy.”
Jameson smiled like the charming devil he was. “You made this meal much more delightful than I thought it would be—even with the blood. Quit hiding out here and come visit Chicago sometime soon?”
“She doesn’t go anywhere without me or Rafe,” I cut in, voice sharp enough to freeze the room.
She scoffed, tilting her chin. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“See how ungrateful she is.” Her father was half hysterical at this point, scrambling for anything to point a finger at. “You’re walking out without saying goodbye to me too? And you have nothing to say for your cousin?” her father asked.
But Bianca seemed to have found her voice within the violence because she tilted her head at his question and said, “What should I say, Father? That I’m sorry for your loss? Or that he deserved it?”
“Bianca!” Her mother gasped.
“I don’t have anything to say to either of you. Definitely not goodbye. Maybe good riddance.” Then she turned, leaving me with the image of her pastel blue dress dotted with blood and the scent of her perfume lingering in the air like a dare.
Like she didn’t think I’d follow.
But I always did.