Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
ENZO
The ocean crashes against the rocky cliffside, each wave a thunderous reminder that power comes in many forms. In its rawest form, it’s nature. In my form, it’s a net worth that rivals half the free world and a small militia at my beck and call.
The beach sprawls out, an endless stretch of desolate sand and restless sea, the only movement a few seagulls circling above.
If one of them shits on my suit, I swear to God, I’ll shoot them.
Andre finally rolls up, twenty minutes late. It baffles me that there was ever a time I considered him anything but pond scum. His crooked smile and perpetual smirk lock onto me, stirring a potent cocktail of anger and regret I’ve spent my life trying to bury.
Seeing him now, a fresh wave of bitter memories crashes over me. It’s like bandaging a wound with barbed wire—brutal and excruciating, each thought ripping me apart all over again.
If I hadn’t given him an ounce of respect back then, maybe none of this would be happening. And no matter how I distance myself, I’m always drawn back in.
His web of destruction is vast, nearly invisible until you’re trapped at the center of it. No matter how far I go, its strands are always floating around, their sticky presence constantly brushing against my skin.
Uncle Andre’s brand-new car represents him to a T—sporty enough to broadcast his one-inch dick and expensive enough to make people fawn over it. Some might call it luxurious; I call it gaudy as fuck.
He exits and heads towards me. If I kill him on the spot, who would know?
But then I catch the glint of a sniper rifle reflected on a distant crag. From the angle, I know it’s not one of my guys. Which means it’s one of his, and they would definitely know. Probably take me out with a clean, precise bullet straight to the heart.
Killjoy.
“Having fun with the girl?” Uncle Andre sneers, his voice slicing through the tension like a blade.
There’s a glint in his eyes that I can’t quite read—sadism, pleasure, maybe both. Then he pulls out a vial, and I see it’s just my coked-up uncle itching for a hit.
He dabs some onto his hand and takes a long, indulgent sniff—his twisted version of liquid courage. Normally, he’d offer me some, knowing I’d refuse. But today, there’s no offer. Guess he’s not feeling so charitable after I annihilated one of his choke points.
I don’t bother with pleasantries. I shove both hands into my pockets, too exhausted for this conversation. “What do you want?” I spit, my patience as worn as the bad rug on his head.
“I want to know how your arm is,” he says, motioning to the wound hidden beneath my shirt. “Consider it a warning shot. Mess with my operation again, and both your girl and her sister get sold to the highest bidder.”
I pull out a cigar and light it, letting the smoke curl around my face. The slow drag is calming, though not as much as envisioning a clean, straight slice across his neck, just below the jaw but above the Adam’s apple.
Or better yet, one swift stab through the artery, puncturing the esophagus and letting him drown in his own blood. At the very least, it would finally shut him up.
“You cost me a lot of money,” he goes on, as if he isn’t already a multi-millionaire several times over. But then again, he’s not a billionaire, thanks to me.
“And?” I ask, blowing a long puff of smoke in his face.
“And you’re going to make it up to me.” He holds up two fingers, a sinister smile twisting his lips. “You have two days with her. Then, either you hand her back...”
“Or?” I ask, underwhelmed.
“Or you can take on two. In the ring.” I swear, he’s the only man who calls an MMA cage a ring. And the implication is clear: the men I’d be fighting, probably armed with tire irons, chains, and baseball bats, would bring my uncle eight figures. Maybe even nine.
And the small fact that I’d be a walking vegetable if I survived only sweetens the deal for him.
I smile and walk to his car. “I’ll think about it,” I lie, studying the sleek angles of his car. It’s a flashy model I’ve never seen before.
“Do we have a deal?”
I don’t answer and walk around the side, inspecting it from a different angle.
He loses patience the way he always does with me. “Debts will be honored, Enzo.”
Mantra of our world. Debts will be honored . The entire reason Kennedy even made his radar. My heart kicks up a beat, remembering how she tastes when she comes?—
“Are you even listening?” he asks. “Or is your brain already oatmeal?”
He would know. It was the matches I did for him that made my brain the lost cause that it is.
“I have two days,” I repeat.
His laugh is cold and hollow, devoid of any real humor. “She must be one hell of a lay. I can’t wait to find out for myself.”
“You’ll never touch her,” I reply, my voice steady as I continue puffing my cigar calmly.
“And you and I both know your family will never support a war, and sure as hell not over a dime-a-dozen cunt.” He smacks my cheek, the sting sharp. “Think about it. Do the fight. I’ll even tell them to stay away from your face.”
We’re eye to eye. Or we would be if I didn’t tower over his pathetic ass.
I smirk. “You and I both know it won’t end there.” I flick a bug from the top of the dash. “Is this a limited edition or vintage?” I wonder aloud.
A small flicker of pride lights in his eyes, and his grin widens. “It’s a one-of-a-kind. Handcrafted.” He brushes his stubby fingers along the paint.
“How much?”
“Two and a half million dollars.”
“It’s nice.” I puff my cigar and turn to face him. I want to watch his expression as I shove the ash end of it on the hood.
It’s almost slow motion, his reflexes. The wave of shock melts his fake-ass demeanor and reddens his face with rage.
The threats he makes as he bitches about the custom gold flecks that can’t be reproduced in the destroyed paint. “You’re fucking dead,” and “I will end you.” Blah, blah, blah.
Frankly, the color looks like some kid melted down gray, green, and orange crayons and added a bunch of sparkly shit to it. I’m doing him a favor.
He shoves a gun under my chin. I press my own piece against his gut, relishing the surge of adrenaline through my veins. “Let’s fucking do this,” I growl, eyes locked onto his. “Mutual annihilation. Right here. Right now.”
The tension between us is an electric fence, ready to pump xxx watts of death with one wrong move.
“Your little bitch will pay for this,” he vows, stepping back slowly until he feels all snug and safe in his butt-ugly car. He rolls down the window. “Two days,” he spits. “And her ass is mine. And anyone else I care to rent her to.”
His wheels spin out, and he drives away.
Getting into my own car is automatic. I drive aimlessly through the narrow, winding streets, the shops and buildings passing by in a blur.
The car has a mind of its own, which is good, considering the pain in the base of my neck feels like a shank going from my spine and exiting out my eye.
I need to pull over and rest, but with the city crawling with Andre’s spies, there’s only one place I can go.
The brothel—the one the team and I rescued all those women from. And if I know my uncle, the fact that I sanitized it means it’s nuclear waste to him.
I park in a hidden carport and find my way in. I need to rest, to think, before I face Kennedy. She can’t see me like this—enraged. Broken.
I see a man—myself in the mirror. Between my pain, Andre’s threats, and my own fucking reflection, I do what I do best.
My fist flies into it, dead center. It shatters, shards raining down like tiny, glinting daggers, each piece reflecting me in my fractured fucking state.
“You’ll figure it out ,” the ghost of Mullvain says. For a figment of my imagination, he’s strangely encouraging.
“I have two fucking days,” I argue with no one at all, dropping onto a bed that would under any normal circumstances make me cringe and want to dive straight into bleach. But right now, I just need to close my eyes and think.