Chapter 30 #2
I reach them just as Raven’s stiletto connects with the man’s shin, a vicious kick that makes me smile even as rage burns through my veins like gasoline.
He’s got his fingers dug into her arm hard enough to bruise her perfect skin, and he’s lifting his other hand to… hit her or restrain her, doesn’t matter which. That hand belongs to me now. Along with every fucking finger attached to it.
I grab his wrist, squeezing until I feel the delicate bones grind together. The satisfying little pop as something shifts out of place sends a shiver of pleasure down my spine.
“Big fucking mistake,” I snarl, spinning him around so fast his shoulder makes a clicking sound. The way his eyes widen—fear dawning like a beautiful sunrise—almost makes me hard. Almost.
“The fuck is your problem?” the man spits, trying to yank free. His attempts at bravado might be impressive if they weren’t so fucking pathetic. I don’t recognize him—not one of my regulars, not one of the known players from the other families.
“You,” I reply simply. Then, I drive my fist into his face.
The crunch of cartilage giving way sends a spike of endorphins flooding my system. Blood sprays in a beautiful arc—some of it spattering across my white shirt cuff, some across Raven’s arm. She doesn’t flinch. Interesting.
The man howls, hands flying to his ruined nose, blood pouring between his fingers like water through a broken dam. I shake out my hand, knuckles pleasantly stinging, and glance around the club.
Everyone is frozen, conversations dying mid-word, drinks paused halfway to lips. Good. Witnesses are what I need. Making an example establishes boundaries around Raven and reminds people that I’m watching.
“Rafe,” I call. My cousin nods once, already reading my intent before I speak. “Get this piece of shit up on the platform.”
He grabs the bleeding man by the collar and starts dragging him toward the stage, where the dancers have frozen mid-routine, half-naked and wide-eyed. The music cuts abruptly, leaving only the sounds of the man’s gurgling protests and the whispered tension of the crowd.
I turn to Raven, half-expecting her to be backing away, looking for exits. Instead, she’s watching with those dark eyes, something unreadable flickering in their depths. Not fear—something sharper.
Pushing my suit jacket off, I place it on her and she quickly wraps the much bigger jacket tight. “Come with me,” I tell her, taking her hand. It’s not a request.
She follows without hesitation, her fingers curling around mine with a pressure that suggests she’s holding on rather than being led. The sensation shoots straight to my cock.
The dancers scatter as we approach, stilettos clicking frantically against the polished stage. Someone cuts the regular lighting, replacing it with a single spotlight that creates a perfect circle of illumination at center stage.
The theatrics aren’t planned, but they’re perfect—turning punishment into performance art. Rafe forces the man to his knees in the spotlight, holding him in place with a hand on each shoulder. Blood continues to drip from his nose, pattering against the stage like obscene rainfall.
“You know who I am?” I ask, circling him slowly, enjoying the way he tries to track me without moving his head.
“Russo,” he mumbles through the blood. “Look, I didn’t know she was—”
“Shut the fuck up,” I cut him off, stopping directly in front of him. “Everyone knows. Everyone.” I raise my voice, addressing the silent club. “Don’t they?”
Murmurs of agreement ripple through the darkness beyond the spotlight. I turn back to the kneeling man, smiling in a way that makes his eyes widen further. “Now you’re going to apologize to her.”
He looks at Raven, who’s standing just at the edge of the spotlight, pink hair gleaming, dark eyes unreadable. “I’m sorry,” he croaks.
“For what?” I prompt, enjoying the game now.
“For touching you,” the man says to Raven, voice thick with blood and fear. “For grabbing your arm. I’m sorry.”
Raven steps forward into the spotlight, her face illuminated in harsh white light that somehow makes her more beautiful, not less.
“You’re an asshole,” she hisses, her voice carrying clearly across the hushed room.
“No means fucking no.” I can’t tell whether I’m surprised or turned on when she spits at the kneeling man.
“Did you tell him no?” I ask her softly.
Raven nods sharply. “I told him to let me go, and he wouldn’t.” Her gaze darts toward the stranger. “That’s why I kicked him. He’s just lucky I didn’t get his balls.”
Fuck, my Little Thief is built to bring men to their knees.
I reach into my pocket and withdraw a silver case. A custom-made gift from Remus. The club falls even more silent, if that’s possible, as I open it to reveal what looks like an elegant cigar cutter—except the opening is wider, the mechanism heavier.
“Since you didn’t respect my woman telling you no,” I say conversationally, “it’s my turn.”
Fear blooms across the man’s face, beautiful as a bloodstain. “Please,” he whimpers. “Please, I said I was sorry—”
“You did,” I reply pleasantly, nodding at Rafe, who’s by my side. He understands immediately, forcing the man’s hand flat on the stage, fingers splayed wide.
The cutter feels cool against my palm, familiar. I’ve used it enough times that the weight of it is comforting—a trusted tool, like my lighter, like my knife. I position it over the man’s pinky and ring finger, just above the second knuckle.
“This is a message,” I announce to the room, “about respecting boundaries. About understanding what belongs to me—and what happens when you forget.”
The man tries to jerk his hand back, but Rafe’s grip is unbreakable. I squeeze the handles of the cutter, and the blades snap shut with a wet crunch that sends electricity racing up my spine.
His severed fingers hit the stage with twin thumps, blood pulsing from the stumps in rhythm with the man’s frantic heartbeat. His scream is music—high and broken, cracking on the edges like heat-stressed glass.
“Oh, God.”
I turn toward the whimper, seeing Piper hiding her face in Enzo’s chest. Christ, my… what is she? Cousin-wife-in-law? Whatever she is, she needs to toughen up.
I slide my lighter from my pocket, flick it open with practiced ease, and cauterize the wounds. The smell of burning flesh fills my nostrils—sweet and metallic, like caramel made from blood. I close my eye for a brief moment, savoring it.
Fire cleansing flesh, just like it did all those years ago when I burned the Greco family who killed my parents. Just like it will when I finally discover who’s been trying to end me.
When I’m satisfied the bleeding has stopped, I step back, tucking both cutter and lighter away. “Get him out of here,” I tell Rafe, who nods and drags the sobbing man off stage.
Catching Enzo’s gaze, I nod toward the exit, silently telling him to get his wife out of here. But when she balks, I pay closer attention.
“Wait,” she rushes out. “I can’t leave without—”
“I’m fine,” Raven chirps from behind me. “Just go, Pipes. I’m proud of you, and I promise to buy you something pretty as a thank you.”
I turn just in time to see Raven blow a kiss at Piper. And… it all falls into place. Raven avoiding me, Piper coming to her best friend’s aid, and Enzo’s fucking comment about being free as a bird.
Fuck. Me.
Despite all that, all I can do is look at Raven. Most women would be retching by now, or at least looking away. But my Little Thief is full of surprises. She stands perfectly still, eyes fixed on the severed fingers still lying on the stage.
Her pupils are blown wide, almost swallowing the brown of her irises. Her chest rises and falls rapidly while a flush spreads across her cheekbones and down her throat.
There’s no disgust in her expression. No fear. Instead, I see fascination. Arousal. A hunger that mirrors my own.
“You good?” I ask, stepping closer, the coppery scent of blood mixing with her perfume in a combination that makes my mouth water.
She blinks, coming back to herself. “Better than him,” she quips, a tremor in her voice.
I laugh, genuine amusement bubbling up. I cup her face with my hand, thumb brushing across her lower lip. It’s slightly parted, warm and soft beneath my touch.
“You got my attention, Little Thief,” I murmur. “What are you going to do with it?”
“I… w-what?” She takes a step back as though my words have broken whatever trance she was in.
“Dancing on stage,” I clarify. “I can only assume you wanted my attention. And now you have it.”
When she doesn’t immediately reply, I turn and lock eyes with the bouncers.
“Everyone out. Now. We’re closed for the night,” I roar.