23. Brady
Brady
When I show her which book to tilt off the shelf, the delight on Cora’s face is so beautiful I want to kiss her.
But she’s turning away, stepping through the hidden door to explore my office’s bathroom and closet.
The connected rooms are as large and well-appointed as any of my hotels’ luxury suites.
I show her how to lock the bookshelf from inside. Just in case.
With a turn of the vault handle, this place becomes a safe room. This particular door also features a hidden lock from the outside. But I decide against telling her that for now.
Only I know about that little detail.
As she steps into the shower, I give her reddened ass another slap. She yelps. Then, hungry for me again, she turns to beckon me with a crook of her finger.
“Not just yet,” I tell her. “Take your time.”
I pick up her clothes from my office and set them on the bathroom counter. Her lacy panties are damp from her mouth and slick with her pussy juices. Fuck, that was the hottest thing I’ve ever been a part of. I’m shocked that my strong-willed Cora let me do that.
Yet I’m not at all surprised she enjoyed every second of it.
I change my suit, then return to my office to wait for her. We used my chair and the desk. But there’s still the couch and the armchairs. Plus the chaise in the back closet. And the shower. And the bathroom counter.
I like the idea of the mirror. Of my wife watching me fuck her from behind. But I’ll give her all the time she needs in the shower first. I smile to myself and pull out my phone as I wait.
Liam texted me an hour ago.
Liam: Call
And again half an hour ago.
Liam: Fucking call
Shit. As I unlock my phone, my older brother calls me first.
“Are you coming to the basement?” he asks.
Fuck. I rub my eyes. My wife’s attacker needs to be dealt with. Soon. Liam’s impatience is understandable.
“Yes,” I tell him. I went against his direct order last night, and now it’s time for me to atone.
We hang up, then I call Finn, who’s loitering in his office down the hall. I give him my instructions and jot a quick note for my wife.
Part of me wants to kiss her goodbye. But if I see her in the shower, her hair in wet tangles as water cascades down her naked body, I’ll be too tempted to join her.
Family duty calls for me to leave. So I go.
* * *
I descend the basement stairs. Surrounded by the chill of concrete, I pull the heavy lever to close the trap door above me.
Down in the soundproofed bunker, Liam’s at the card table playing solitaire. He’s facing the one-way mirror into the interrogation room. But it’s not as if the prisoner inside is a flight risk.
My brother and I greet each other with curt nods.
“Sorry for the delay,” I tell him.
He raises his eyebrows at me. It’s not like me to apologize. But it’s not like me to keep my responsibilities waiting, either.
I hang up my suit in my locker and change into burnable clothes. Untreated cotton sweats. Pulling them on feels like a ritual. A precursor to violence.
In the interrogation room, the metallic ammonia scent of blood and piss fills the subterranean space. Liam follows me inside.
“He’s in a talking mood,” my brother says.
The dozing man jerks awake in his chair.
“Whatever you want to know,” he says.
I sneer at the man who attacked my wife.
He’s in the middle of the concrete room, tied to a wooden chair that’s set above the drain.
He’s down to his underwear. Black bruises oozing with cuts cover his body, but his shaved head looks untouched.
His fingers all end in bloody messes, the fingernails missing.
Finn’s work.
My younger brother must’ve been the one to work him over. The skinhead tried to kill him too, after all.
As I circle around the prisoner, I see a large injury to the back of his head. The result of blunt force. I point it out to Liam.
“Did Finn get carried away?” I ask. Everything above the fucker’s neck should’ve been mine to deal with.
“That was your wife,” Liam says. He hands me a stubby, weighted club. “She got him with his own weapon.”
My chest fills with pride as I consider the heavy club in my hands.
“I’ll leave you to it.” Liam closes the door behind him.
“Speak,” I tell the prisoner.
He lifts his head. But he doesn’t dare look me in the eye.
“Seven hired me to attack Cora O’Sullivan,” he says all at once.
I bristle at the sound of my wife’s name coming from this fuck’s mouth. He stumbles through the rest of his explanation.
“I was supposed to wait outside her building, then get her over the head and drag her to the nearest alley. Then I was supposed to—to hurt her and leave her there,” he stammers.
My face is blinding hot with rage.
“You mean rape her.”
“Y-yes.”
I swing his club down on top of his shaved skull, and he shouts in pain. The bare lightbulb above him shines on his reddening scalp. I curl my lip at him as I watch the satisfying goose egg form. This man tried to rape my wife.
“What else?” I demand. “What else did Seven tell you to do?”
“I-I was supposed to carve the number seven into her.”
I swing again. This time I connect with the wound Cora left on the back of this fucker’s head. He goes limp. I prod his cheek with his club until he comes to.
“Where?” I ask.
“The alley,” he slurs.
“Where on my wife’s body were you supposed to carve the number seven?”
“I can’t remember,” he says, so I jog his memory. “Her face, middle of her cheek.”
I toss his club aside. It clatters to the concrete as I slam my fist into his cheekbone. He tries to spit out blood, a weak dribble down his chin.
Seven will pay for this.
Earlier today I imagined snapping the spine of our greatest enemy. Retaliation for my wife’s bruise. Now I’m fantasizing which words I’m going to carve into that motherfucker’s skin.
But there are other things I need to do first. So many ways I can hurt Seven where that greedy posh boy will feel it the most. Before I physically destroy him. At the end of the day, he’s a businessman. We all are.
I get up close to the prisoner’s face in case Liam’s listening in.
“Seven’s warehouse in West Park. Tell me what you know about it.”
My brother doesn’t need to be informed about the warehouse just yet. I’ve been considering acting alone on this one. A way to test out my skills I discovered the other night. I was good at setting men on fire, but a one-time success could be a fluke.
“I dunno,” the prisoner sobs. “I dunno about a warehouse, he just hires me for odd jobs.”
“Odd jobs like raping and mutilating my wife?”
“Y-yes.”
“Wrong answer.”
I leave the interrogation room and open the tool cabinet. Liam looks up from his game but says nothing. I select a large saw and a tire iron, then return to finish the skinhead.
I shake the saw at him. His eyes go wide at the metal thunderclap sound. I let his imagination do its job as I set to work behind him.
I saw off the back of his chair, but keep his wrists tied to the wooden arms. He whimpers pathetically as I exchange the saw for the tire iron. My body is shaking with rage. I have to force myself back to calm. Steady. I stand behind the skinhead and line up my shot.
When I swing, I connect with his spine. Right where he hurt my wife. I swing again and again until I hear his backbone snap.
Then I give him a single blow to the back of the head, finishing Cora’s handiwork.