Chapter 8 #2
“Did you hear me, asshole?” He screams, making the mistake of taking a step toward me.
Disarming wanna-be gangsters quickly is one of my specialties.
I have his gun twisted from his hand and his arm shoved behind his back before he registers his new predicament.
I grind his gun into the back of his skull, itching to pull the trigger.
“Don’t even twitch,” I growl into his ear.
Then I turn my attention to Lennon. “You okay?”
She nods. Then leans her hands on the counter, her knees buckling beneath her. Definitely not okay.
“Be right back, Angel.” I push the guy’s arm up further on his back, eliciting a string of curses from him, and march him out the door. No way I’m going to traumatize Lennon with this asshole’s blood.
Gunnar is waiting. He beats the guy in the head with his gun until the guy falls to the pavement in a heap of unconscious dipshit and blood. Head wounds are the worst. The scalp bleeds like a motherfucker. We both look at the borrowed car and I shrug.
“We’ll throw him a few bucks for cleaning.”
Gunnar shakes his head as he drags the guy toward the trunk.
“Take him to the warehouse. I’m going to drive Lennon home. You can leave him with a guard. I’ll be there in a bit.”
When I step back into the diner, there’s a short, dark-haired man, wearing a soiled apron, standing beside Lennon. His hand is on her shoulder. I stride over and glare at him.
He jerks his hand away like her shoulder burned him.
I turn my gaze on Lennon, assessing her. She’s got her arms wrapped around her middle. She’s too still, her eyes too wide.
Shit.
“Lennon.” I keep my voice low and soft. “Sweetheart. Look at me.”
Her eyes meet mine and a shudder rolls through her body. “Sandro?”
“Get your things, I’m taking you home.”
Her pupils are blown. She’s in shock. “I… I have to close up.”
I nod toward the man standing stiffly at her side, his eyes locked on me like I’m the threat. To be fair, if he touches her again, I will be. “I’m sure this gentleman can close up. Right?” I glare at him.
He is still eyeing me warily. “We should call the police,” he says.
I drop my mask, showing him the rage simmering in my eyes. “No police. I’ll take care of it. You understand me?”
He takes an involuntary step back, his head bobbing quickly. “Yeah yeah. Got it.’
My hands curl into fists. “And you can close the diner now.”
He holds up his palms in surrender. “Sí, hombre. I can do that.”
Lennon looks behind me then darts around the counter to the elderly couple in the booth. The man is trying to comfort his wife with soft words.
“Are you okay?” Lennon asks them.
My girl. Such a big heart.
I walk over to stand behind her and make eye contact with the old man with liver spots and hearing aids. A smile ghosts my lips. His body may be aged, but I can see the fire in his eyes as he clutches his wife’s hand in his, his phone in the other. He’s seconds away from calling the cops.
“Mr.?” I ask, arching a brow.
“Brighton. Bill Brighton.”
“Bill.” I glance meaningfully at his phone. “It would be best if we didn’t get the police involved. I can guarantee you this man will face consequences for his stupidity tonight.”
Lennon stiffens in front of me. I have to hold myself back from wrapping an arm around her to comfort her.
Bill’s bushy gray brows rise on his forehead. Then he gives me a once over and nods in understanding. “I’ll be getting my wife home then.”
We move aside so he can help his wife from the booth. As Bill passes me, he looks up, locking eyes with me. “About time somebody takes care of her for a change.” He winks and pats my forearm with an arthritic hand.
An amused grunt escapes my throat.
***
I didn’t realize when I told Lennon I’d drive her home that her car was such a tin-can piece of shit. I have the seat pushed all the way back and my knees are still wedged under the steering wheel. The oil light is on, and the brakes are spongey.
I have to stop myself from driving to the Mercedes dealership we own—for money laundering purposes—and force them to open so I can buy her a car. If I know my little firecracker, she won’t accept it anyway. The only gift she’s ever accepted from me is the snow globe.
I pull up to a red light and glance over.
She’s staring out the window, chewing on a bitten-to-the-quick thumbnail.
The only words she’s uttered so far are to tell me she lives in the same apartment.
When I said I already knew that, she glanced at me sharply, questions swimming in her narrowed eyes.
I have questions, too. So many questions. But this isn’t the right time for my questions or my anger.
As I try to adjust the rearview mirror, it falls off and bounces off the gear shift.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath. The duct tape that was apparently holding it on is dangling from the window.
The light turns green, and I hand her the useless mirror. “Do you prefer black or white?”
Without looking at me or missing a beat she says, “You’re not buying me a new car, Sandro.”
A deep chuckle escapes my chest. I forget how well she knows me.
I park her poor excuse for transportation in the allotted space and struggle to unfold myself and stand. Rubbing my lower back, I slam the door. It bounces back open.
“You have to lift up the handle and bump it with your hip,” she says over the hood.
I stare at her and then down at the car. Maybe I could just set it on fire. Then she’d have to accept a new car. I rub the stubble on my jaw.
“Sandro,” she says sharply. “Whatever you’re thinking, no.”
I smirk as I bump the door shut as she instructed.
As we begin the walk through the parking lot to her second-floor apartment in the balmy night air, I glance down at her. I’m curious. “What do you think I was thinking?”
She sighs. “Probably something like stealing my car and taking it to the junkyard so I’d have to accept a new car.”
I’m impressed. “Well, that would’ve probably been less dramatic.”
A soft laugh falls from her lips, and I almost trip over my feet. I forgot how the sound of her laugh lifts the world off my shoulders for a moment. Makes me feel warm and alive.
The sense of deja vu is eroding reality around the edges. The ride was too quick. I don’t want to leave her.
As she shoves her key in the door with a shaky hand, I take her in, her delicate profile, her sweet, inviting scent, and her soft curves. I jam my hands in my pockets to keep from reaching out and pulling her into me.
What is happening to me? My self-control is hanging on by a thread right now.
When she opens the door, she finally looks up and meets my gaze. There’s barely a green ring around her enlarged pupils. Her skin is still so pale, it’s translucent. In her world, it’s not an everyday occurrence to have a gun pointed in your face. And that’s the world she should remain in.
Should I ask her if she wants me to stay?
“Are you going to kill that man?” she whispers.
Fuck. Out of all the questions she could ask, this is the wrong one. I don’t answer her, but she sees it in my eyes.
She nods sadly. “Goodnight, Sandro. Thanks for… being there.” She slips inside and closes the door.
I stand there for an embarrassingly long time, unable to move, unable to walk away knowing she’s so close. I rest my forehead on the door. Finally, I sigh and press my palm against it. “Goodnight, Angel.”
***
Striding into the soundproofed space, I nod at the soldier sitting in the chair, guarding the piece of shit I’m about to tear apart.
He’s been stripped naked and strapped to the back wall, a rag shoved in his mouth. I don’t particularly want to see this asshole’s limp dick, but the absolute sense of vulnerability being naked forces on my victims is worth it.
He’s shrieking at me and tugging on the leather bindings holding him in a starfish position. I walk over to the table and pick up four throwing knives.
A hot coal has been burning in my chest since I left Lennon, along with deep regret shredding my black heart to pieces. The Beast has turned his claws inward and wants blood.
Pivoting swiftly, I flick one knife after another in quick, brutal succession.
His muffled shouting morphs into screams as they hit their mark, burying themselves deep—one in each shoulder and one in each thigh.
I tilt my head from side to side, cracking my neck and rolling my shoulders.
The tension hasn’t eased. I turn back to the table and grab a meat cleaver.
A chuckle comes from the soldier smoking in the corner.
When I reach the man, I grab the end of the knife lodged in his right shoulder, push and twist. A high-pitched cry sounds behind the cloth. A sheen of sweat covers his face and chest, his eyes wild with pain.
I pull the cloth from his mouth. My chest is heaving as I stare into his eyes. My lips curl into a ruthless grin. “You make a lot of noise for a dead man.”
He presses his lips together, a white ring forming around his mouth. Sweat drips down his face.
I drag the meat cleaver over the tattoo on his neck, pressing just hard enough to draw a few beads of blood. “The six-one-one. You assholes are getting bold. Okay, six-one-one. Do you know who I am?” My nostrils flare as the thick scent of his fear and piss wafts over me.
His Adam's apple bobs in his skinny throat as he grits his teeth through the pain. His eyes find mine. His voice is strained and full of regret. “I do now.”
I nod. “And do you know what you will be?”
A flare of rebellion darkens his eyes, but he stays quiet.
“A message.” I punch him in the face. Once.
Twice. Three times. Until my fist, slick with his blood, slips off his jaw.
Then I clench his bloody jaw in my hand.
“You fuckers think you can rob businesses in my territory? The streets will run red with your blood. Your family’s blood.
That will be the message.” I drop his jaw and step to his right, lifting the meat cleaver to rest on my shoulder.
His head lolls on his neck, strings of bloody spit dripping from his mouth. He’s blinking, trying to focus on me but he’s fading.
I smack him in the face. “Hey, dead man, don’t pass out on me yet. I have one more question for you.” I wait until his glassy eyes manage to meet mine. “Do you know who that woman was in the diner? The one you held at gunpoint?”
A noise makes its way up his throat. He must see something in my eyes, because he suddenly stills, and his pupils blow black with fear.
I nod as I step forward and press my palm into his right one, pinning it against the wall.
I see her wide green eyes and pale face staring at his gun.
“That’s right, fucker. She’s mine.” I lift the meat cleaver and slam it into his wrist in front of the leather binding, work it back and forth while his screams echo against the cement walls.
It’s the Beast’s favorite symphony.
His severed hand falls to the floor with a squelching thump. Blood gushes from the stump and flows toward the drain in the floor. His head falls forward as he passes out.
I throw the bloody meat cleaver back on the table and pick up a rag. As I scrub the blood from my hands, the soldier comes to stand beside me.
“You want him dropped at the farm, Boss?”
The farm is actually Riverside Gator Farm, a non-profit attraction that has a hundred-acre lake filled with dozens of eleven-to-fourteen-foot gators and plenty of profit from mob donations funneled through straw donors to stay loyal. Gators are very good at getting rid of bodies.
“No.” I toss the bloody rag on the table. “Drop his body back in the 611 territory. He’s a message.”