Chapter Three #2
It's time to ruin some corrupt men’s lives. And just like that, we head for the warehouse. Business as usual.
The warehouse is on the outskirts of Chicago.
It’s in the more modern industrial areas.
If it looks legit, it’s doubtful someone will come looking.
Most people picture seedy, rotten buildings for crime.
The overhead LED strips cast stark white light against the polished cement floors, their hum barely noticeable over the distant whir of ventilation systems.
This place isn’t some run-down, forgotten building.
It’s modern, efficient, and designed for discretion and control.
The walls are steel-reinforced, sleek, and painted in dark industrial grays, with strategically placed security cameras embedded into the corners.
I know for a fact that Romano sees every angle the moment we walk in.
Rows of modular glass-walled offices line the left side. Their interiors are minimalist but functional—dark desks, ergonomic chairs, and high-end monitors blinking with encrypted data. The soundproofing is so good that, from the outside, you’d never hear the conversations happening inside.
To the right, past the open space in the center, is what we call “the pit”—a vast, sunken area designed for interrogations, negotiations, and the occasional…
disposal of problems. The walls are lined with stainless steel panels, and the floor is graded for easy cleaning—a single grated drain on the floor.
Above us, a steel mezzanine stretches across the back wall, leading to private rooms, locked storage units, and a control hub where Romano’s systems run 24/7.
The glass panels are one-way mirrored, giving a clear vantage point of the floor below.
Everything about this place is clean, organized, and ruthlessly efficient.
The pit is already occupied, but my attention flickers first to Marco, who’s lounging in a chair like he’s watching a damn sports game.
He’s got a bag of peanuts in one hand and is tossing them into his mouth like this is just another Tuesday.
Ever since his wife made him quit smoking, the man has developed an addiction to snacks.
At first, they were sunflower seeds, but the shells ended up everywhere.
So, now? Already shelled peanuts. It’s an improvement.
He’s dressed as impeccably as always because Marco in anything but a suit would be an omen of the apocalypse.
His jacket is unbuttoned, dark navy blue, with a crisp white shirt underneath.
Sleeves rolled just enough to reveal the gold cufflinks his wife gave him.
His black hair is perfectly styled, except for the one defiant curl that always falls between his hazel eyes.
We’ve made it our mission to mess with him about it with Superman jokes. Little figurines were left everywhere—his house, his car, his desk; he even snuck one into his damn suit jacket once. He still has no idea who’s doing it. His wife thinks it hilarious and has helped on occasion.
Marco grins up at Kingston, voice deep and amused, a familiar hint of laughter buried in his tone as he calls out, “Boss.”
With a grin, he stands, shifting his chair back with his foot, dragging it out of the “splash zone.”
I follow his gaze, finally landing on the night's main attraction. Suspended in the middle of the pit, chains creak under the weight of a man hanging limply, wrists bound, ankles shackled.
His head droops forward, dark hair slicked to his forehead, damp with sweat and something thicker. His white dress shirt is torn and stained in places where bruises bloom beneath the fabric. The once-pristine material is now wrinkled, clinging to him from the sweat rolling down his spine.
His face is a mess of swollen flesh and split skin, one eye nearly swollen shut, his lip split down the center, and blood trailing from the corner of his mouth. He’s breathing, but barely.
The rhythmic drip, drip, drip of blood hitting the grated floor echoes in the silence.
I step into the pit, movements calm and methodical, his presence alone shifting the air.
The man stirs and lifts his head just enough to look at us, eyes glazed but still holding onto some stubborn scrap of defiance.
Marco pops another peanut into his mouth and chews slowly, watching.
“Well,” he murmurs, “he’s still conscious. That’s progress.”
I smirk. Not for long. I step closer, the echo of my boots against the concrete, the only sound in the pit. The man before me, low-level scum, barely worth the oxygen he’s sucking in, hangs limply from the chains.
“Well, well,” I murmur, slowly and measured, letting his name roll off my tongue. “What a mess you’ve gotten yourself into.”
My voice drops lower, taking on that familiar, unsettling edge, the one that has broken stronger men than him. I watch as a shudder rolls through his battered frame, his shoulders tensing just enough to tell me he’s still got a little fight left.
I grin, sharp and feral.
Then I slap his cheek, not hard enough to do more damage—just enough to bring him fully back to reality.
His head jerks to the side, a groan tearing from his throat, his lip splitting further, fresh blood welling along the already cracked skin.
“What was that?” I ask when he mumbles something, his words thick, slurred.
He tries again, a little louder this time. “...Wasn’t… me… wrong… person…”
I tilt my head, watching him struggle, his one eye barely cracking open, the other too swollen to function.
Behind me, I sense movement. I don’t have to look to see Kingston and Jace watching, silent, waiting. Romano had already disappeared into his little tech lair, no doubt combing through files, pulling every dirty secret this guy had ever tried to bury.
I glance over my shoulder, smirking. “He says it wasn’t him. We’ve got the wrong person. Guess we can let him go.” Then I laugh in his face.
He flinches at the sound, and I can’t tell if it’s because he knows I’m lying or because he’s too damn stupid to realize I’m not.
I exhale through my nose, stepping away and walking toward the steel table along the wall.
It’s clean and organized, with each tool in its place.
Knives, scalpels, pliers, syringes—everything necessary to get the truth out of a man, whether he wants to give it or not.
I drag a finger over a long, thin blade's hilt, watching how the light catches against its polished surface.
“See,” I murmur, flipping the blade between my fingers, “we’ve caught wind of someone doing… not very nice things.”
He shifts, a pathetic, rattling sound leaving his throat.
I ignore him, watching the blade as I turn it back and forth, letting him see it.
“Someone,” I continue, tone deceptively casual, “has been kidnapping omegas. From their homes, their businesses, and the streets. What for we don’t know.”
There’s a beat of silence, thick and suffocating.
Then Kingston steps in, voice smooth, controlled but coiled tight with barely restrained violence.
“Can you imagine what their packs feel?” he asks, pushing off the wall. “Through their bonds? As their omegas get taken, raped, beaten, drugged—torn away from them like they’re nothing.
The man is breathing harder now, his chest rising and falling in short, uneven bursts. I watch the panic start to creep in, the reality of what’s about to happen finally clicking into place.
I roll my wrist, flipping the knife in my grip before bringing it to his bare chest.
The blade is razor-sharp but not deep-cutting—this isn’t for real damage. It’s for pain. The kind that feels unbearable but leaves no real lasting scars.
I flick it across his nipple, watching as a thin red line blooms in its wake.
It’s barely anything—a papercut at worst.
He shrieks. Not a grunt. Not a hiss of pain. A full, panicked, dramatic scream.
My brows draw together. What in the actual fuck? I know it hurts. I made sure of that. But not that much. I glance at Kingston, who raises a brow. Jace tilts his head, unimpressed.
Behind us, Marco, who has been eating peanuts this whole time, chuckles.
“Either he’s real bad with pain,” Marco muses, tossing another peanut into his mouth, “or he’s about to give himself up before we even start.”
I turn back to my captive, amused now. “Huh,” I murmur, tapping the blade lightly against my fingers. “Dramatic. I like that.”
Then I drag the knife again, just a little lower.
Let’s see how much he’s really willing to scream.
An hour later, my friend is barely hanging on.
Blood drips steadily from his body, pooling beneath him in dark, sluggish puddles, soaking into the grated floor of the pit. His head lolls forward, his chin nearly resting against his chest, and the rise and fall of his breathing are shallow and uneven.
For all the pain and the hours wasted, all we got out of him was one pathetic scrap of information.
M.
That’s it. Just a single goddamn letter.
I stare at the mess before me, frowning, irritation coiling in my gut like a slow burn. He could have just told us more and saved himself from suffering, but men like him? They never learn.
With a sigh, I wipe the blade of my knife against his torn shirt, watching as he shudders involuntarily, his remaining eye fluttering like he’s trying to hold on.
Pointless.
I turn away, rolling the tension from my shoulders as I step out of the pit. Kingston and Jace are already ahead of me, their footsteps steady, unhurried.
Marco falls into step beside me as we leave the building, crumbling the empty peanut bag. I glance at him, already knowing what needs to be done. “Call a cleaning crew,” I muttered, running a hand through my hair. “We have a wedding to get ready for.”
Marco snorts, popping the last handful of peanuts into his mouth before grinning. “Good luck with that.” His laugh follows us to the SUV, low and amused, as I slide into the back seat, exhaling slowly.
Honestly, we might need it.