Chapter 46
Forty-Six
Brooks
Sterling was harder to track down than Ajax.
Oil tycoons didn’t exactly make themselves available to just anyone. Luckily, Cristian Marchetti had resources everywhere.
Hours after fucking Daphne in the library, I was back in the warehouse.
Sterling was the one bound to the chair this time. Ajax’s blood still stained the concrete beneath his feet. A dark purple welt swelled on his cheekbone, and his lip was split open.
Enzo stepped forward, wiping blood from his knuckles. “We had a little fun.” He nodded toward a shaking Sterling. “But we saved him for you to deliver the final punishment.”
I gave him a nod of appreciation before looking at the others. That was the thing about the Sons. We could threaten to kill one another one day and help bury the body the next.
Every Son but Cory was here. So was Cristian. He was the one who’d reeled Sterling in with a fake business proposition.
A man could have more money than God, but that didn’t make him immune to the promise of making more.
I stopped directly in front of Sterling, close enough that he had to crane his neck to look up at me. “Why’d you sell the stories?”
“No one embarrasses my daughter like you did.” He spat at my shoe, the saliva streaked red.
I looked down at the glob on the leather, then slowly raised my eyes back to him.
Brave move for a man tied to a chair.
“Your father and I had made a deal. People don’t double-cross me and get away with it. My daughter was supposed to be First Lady! She would’ve gotten over what happened at that club. You ruined everything for some cunt!”
I slammed my fist into his mouth, the impact vibrating up my arm. His head snapped back violently. I hadn’t even bothered with the brass knuckles in my pocket. The fury over his insult told me I could kill him with my bare hands.
The blow silenced him instantly. His eyes widened, whatever arrogance he’d walked in with gone from his battered face.
All the money in the world couldn’t save you from the wrath of the Sons if you wronged us.
Sterling either hadn’t expected us to track the leak back to him or he’d assumed I was too soft to retaliate.
I hit him again just for that. The pop of his jaw breaking echoed through the warehouse. I smirked, eyeing how his jaw sagged crookedly. I cracked my fist into his face a third time, then rammed my knee into his groin.
He doubled over in the chair, blood streaking his day-old stubble.
“Please,” he sobbed, his words garbled by his broken jaw. “I’m sorry! I’ll tell the journalist I lied and to retract everything.”
“The journalist is dead.”
The color drained from his wrinkled-ass face. His lips parted, but nothing came out. He finally understood there wasn’t a deal left to make.
“Play stupid games, win stupid fucking prizes.” I pulled out my Glock and shot him in the face.
His head snapped back before he slumped forward in his chair. Stepping closer, I yanked his head back, his face now all blood and bone.
I shot him one more time for insulting my Fawn.
No one fucking did that and lived.