2. Matteo #2
His left pinky breaks under my fist. The sound of his screaming is almost musical now.
“Six.”
Ring finger. Crack.
“Seven.”
Middle finger. Crack.
“Eight.”
Index finger. Crack.
“Nine.”
Thumb. Crack.
“Ten. We’re all done.”
“P-please stop,” he chokes out. “I’ve learned my lesson.”
“Have you?” I grab his chin, forcing him to look at me. “Tell me what you’ve learned.”
“Don’t—don’t touch women without permission,” he gasps.
“And?”
“And especially not yours. Never yours. I’m so fucking sorry.”
I pat his cheek, almost gently. “Good boy. You’re learning.”
I nod to Rico. “Untie him.”
Rico moves forward, pulling a knife from his pocket. The fuck flinches, whimpering as Rico cuts through the zip ties binding his wrists and ankles to the chair.
Once free, he crumples to the floor, cradling his mangled hands against his chest. The sobs coming from him are pathetic, almost animal-like. Snot and tears mix with the blood on his face, creating a disgusting mess.
“Aren’t you going to thank me?” I ask, straightening my cuffs. “I could have done much worse. Could have killed you. Instead, I’m letting you live.”
He looks up at me, confusion swimming in his tear-filled eyes. Something shifts in his expression—a flicker of indignation breaking through his fear.
“What the fuck?” he spits out, voice trembling but defiant. “You break all my fingers and expect a thank you?”
I raise an eyebrow, genuinely surprised at this sudden burst of backbone. It’s almost impressive. Almost.
“Well, now you’ve gone and complicated things,” I say, my voice deceptively soft. I look down at my Italian leather dress shoes, buffed to a mirror shine. “Since you can’t muster basic gratitude, I’m afraid I’ll need something more. You’re going to say ‘thank you’ and kiss my shoe.”
His eyes widen in horror. “You can’t be serious—”
Rico doesn’t need instructions. He steps forward and delivers a brutal kick to the man’s back, sending him sprawling face-first onto the filthy concrete floor of the shipping container. The impact knocks what little air he had left out of his lungs.
“I’m always serious,” I say, watching him struggle to breathe through his sobs. “Now crawl over here and show your appreciation for my mercy.”
He tries to push himself up, but his shattered fingers can’t support his weight. Every attempt brings fresh screams as broken bones grind against each other. It’s pathetic watching him struggle, like a beetle flipped on its back.
Finally, he manages to get to his knees, using his forearms instead of his hands. He crawls toward me, leaving a trail of blood, piss, and tears on the concrete. Every inch is agony for him. I can see it in the way his body trembles with the effort.
When he reaches my feet, he collapses, gasping for breath.
“I’m waiting,” I remind him.
“Th-thank you,” he chokes out, voice barely audible.
“I didn’t quite hear that. Louder.”
“Thank you!” he sobs.
“For what exactly?”
“For letting me live,” he whimpers. “Thank you for letting me live.”
“Now, the rest of it.”
His lips press against the toe of my shoe, leaving a smear of blood.
I click my tongue against my teeth, staring down at the smear of crimson on the Italian leather.
“Well, now my shoe is dirty.” I sigh, shaking my head as if I’m disappointed in a child.
“You told me to kiss it!” he whimpers, confusion mingling with terror in his bloodshot eyes.
“So I did.” I rotate my foot, examining the damage. “But now I need compensation for fucking up five-thousand-dollar shoes.”
His face crumples. “I’ll pay you—I’ll transfer whatever—”
I cut him off with a raised hand and turn to Rico, who stands silently by the door. “Finish this.”
Rico nods once, his expression unchanging.
I turn and walk out of the container; the heavy metal door slams shut behind me. The cool night air fills my lungs, washing away the stench of urine. I’ve made it halfway to the car when a single gunshot echoes from the container.
I smile, satisfaction coursing through me. One less piece of garbage in the world. One less man who’ll ever lay hands on what’s mine.
My driver opens the door as I approach, his face carefully blank. He knows better than to comment on what just happened.
“Take me home,” I order, sliding into the back seat.
“Yes, sir.”
As the car pulls away from the pier, I pull out my phone and text Alvarez.
Is she still at the club?
His response comes immediately.
Alvarez
No. Just left in an Uber with her friend. I’m following to make sure they get home safe.
Good. Keep me updated.
I toss the phone onto the seat beside me and lean my head back, closing my eyes. The ache in my knuckles is a pleasant reminder of what I just did. My cock is still hard, the violence doing nothing to diminish my need for her. If anything, it’s made it worse.
Blood always did get me going. Especially blood spilled protecting what’s mine.
I flex my fingers, feeling the slight burn where the brass knuckles chafed against my skin. Worth it. Every fucking drop of that piece of shit’s blood was worth it. My only regret is that I didn’t take more time with him, make him suffer longer for daring to touch Contessa.