4. Chapter 4
Chapter 4
Vincent
W hat the fuck is the matter with me?
Back in the bathroom of my suite, I brace myself against the vanity. I close my eyes until the sensation to throw up dies down. I imagine this is what it feels like to be seasick, but I’ve never had motion sickness before. The Caribbean Sea is remarkably calm as my yacht makes its way at a leisurely speed toward Jamaica, a trip I’ve made many times without issue before.
After splashing cold water over my face, I look in the mirror and half expect to see something other than myself. On the surface, it’s the same me: the same jet-black hair, ebony eyes, rugged bone structure, and prime physique with a few scratches that my would-be assassin gave me. But do I look as ruthless as before?
I’m not sure why I’m questioning myself. I just physically assaulted a woman. I’ve never forced myself on a woman before. There have been women who have wronged me in the past and paid a painful consequence—I don’t discriminate between the sexes when it comes to retribution—but what I did to “Ramona” is something I’ve never done before.
I used her own body against her. I denigrated and degraded her. And the sadist in me found it hot as hell. Because I’ve never had a woman get that wet for me before, even though she’d probably prefer to sit in a pit of tarantulas than do anything I tell her.
I knew the words I had her say made her retch inside, but they came out sounding so sweet.
“Please, daddy, please fuck me.”
“Now tell me why.”
“Because your baby girl needs it bad. ”
“That’s more like it. Tell me more.”
“Your baby girl loves it when you fuck me with your big daddy cock.”
My loins warm with the memory of how she begged and how she came. Her orgasm on my cock felt fucking amazing. Even after I came, the swell of my knot didn’t seem to want to go down, like it wanted me to be permanently locked to her.
I’ve decided to keep her alive. For the time being. Anyone who knows me knows that crossing me is equivalent to asking for a death sentence. And in some cases—like with the little omega caged in my dungeon—death would be a relief. I don’t play nice anymore. Nice doesn’t get you anywhere. The love of my life was beyond nice. No one could have been purer of heart. And because she made the mistake of loving a degenerate like me, she paid for it with her life. And not in a peaceful passing, but in a shower of bullets, none of which produced an instant death. Instead, she bled out in my arms .
The heavens showed no mercy for an angel on earth, so why should I do things differently? Why should I be anything but cruel to a woman who tried to fucking kill me? I wasn’t going to give her a quick death no matter what, but she made things worse for herself when she claimed to have the same name as the one person I would spend an eternity in Hell for the chance to bring back.
With a towel, I wipe the water dripping from my face and step out onto the balcony, inhaling the balmy night air as I close my eyes. For a moment, my mind is empty and I feel fine. But the instant my thoughts drift back to Ramona, I start to feel queasy again. My head starts to pound. It’s like she put a hex on me. Only I don’t believe in witches. I don’t believe in the supernatural, and I don’t believe in any higher being. If such a thing as God or gods existed, then they’re just as sadistic, fucked up, and immoral as me. How else could the world be as messed up as it is ?
Look at my luxury yacht worth over a quarter-billion dollars. It’s mine because I run one of the most successful criminal organizations on the planet. We do just about everything from selling illicit drugs to money laundering to cybercrime. Just no sex trafficking. I got rid of that when I took over as head of the Black Dragon Triad. But that’s not enough to save my soul. I have too much blood on my hands.
If the gods were righteous, fair and compassionate, the do-gooders in the world would own this yacht. Not criminals like me. That old adage that crime doesn’t pay only applies to people who don’t do it well.
I walk over to the bar and pour myself a shot of baijiu. There’s one other potential explanation for why I feel like crap, but it’s absurd. More absurd than my developing seasickness out of nowhere.
Because my conscience died alongside her years ago.
I throw down the burning liquid as if it could quash any possible budding of a conscience.
And just to prove I am as heartless as they come, I have something terrible in store for Ramona. She will give me her real name and the names of any accomplices.
She will break for me.