"I need to fucking kill someone."
Simo looks up from his computer slowly, his fingers still typing, as if I've just told him the sky is blue. My brother has never been one for extreme displays of emotion, but most of the time I have enough for the both of us. Like now. My pulse kicks, and I begin pacing his office. The ticking of his stupid fucking grandfather clock and the dull sound of my boots on the carpet fill the silence.
"Mm," he hums, looking back at his computer.
I barely restrain myself from swiping his fifteen-thousand-dollar personalized paperweights off the desk. In fact, let me just take down the whole desk while I'm at it. Everything is arranged perfectly, so clean and pristine, that it pisses me off.
"I'm leaving. I'll be back in a few days."
Now I have his attention. "It's not the sixth of the month yet."
"I know." I meet his resolute stare. Normally, the composure there cools me down, calms the rage licking up the insides of my stomach with its fiery caress. Simo is the only one who can get me to think clearly sometimes. He embodies order, control. It can be grounding for me, or it can be like throwing a bucket of water on a house fire.
It's the latter right now.
"You aren't doing this because of the girl?" My brother's voice is steady, but I can hear the warning underpinning it.
"I'm doing this because I need to fucking kill someone and I can't wait two more weeks for the Serpentine meeting," I press through gritted teeth. I'm not sure why he seems hellbent on mentioning Nina to me every other fucking second.
"The next Serpentine meeting is in twelve days."
"That rounds up to two weeks."
"You've waited more than twelve days befo—"
"It may as well be twelve fucking years!" I slam a fist on his desk, those ridiculous paperweights rattling.
Simo continues typing on his laptop. He looks like the picture of professionalism sitting here in his office, sending emails and taking calls. You'd never know he's ordering hits and sending his men to all corners of the country to conduct his bloody business for him.
My brother doesn't like to get his hands dirty. Which is fine by me, because I enjoy it a little too much.
My patience is past running out by the time he calmly shuts his laptop. "There's a man in Dallas who broke into his ex-wife's house. He shot her and her new husband in their own bed. He did it in front of their two young children, and then shot them too."
"And?"
"One of the children survived. He's a twelve-year-old boy and he has no other surviving family. He'll be thrown into the system."
My fists clench. "He's mine."
Massimo nods, and I run a reckless hand through my hair.
"I'll make sure nobody touches her," my brother says, and I know he's talking about Nina. I take a deep breath to quell the rage that begins to rise in my gut again. "But after your field trip, you need to deal with her. And Santo?"
I tilt my head impatiently.
"Be quick with this one. I don't feel like playing babysitter for too long."
I'm halfway out the door before he finishes talking. "Send me the man's name and address," I call out behind me, not listening for his response. My mind is already running over what will be awaiting me in Dallas.
+
The blinking lights of my Bugatti illuminate the dense forest that stretches before me. It's disgustingly muggy in Dallas, and I rub a palm over my jaw, cringing at the dampness that seems to cling to the air.
The blinking creates a rhythm, the only sound in the silence that stretches over me and the thickness of the trees that go on for miles. It's peaceful. Serene.
Click. Click. Click. Click.
I match my steps to the clicks as I round the car. Right as I approach the trunk, as if on cue, there are two thumps.
I pop it open, and the terrified, gagged face of my little game for the next couple hours stares up at me. His eyes slide down to the rifle in my left hand and widen comically. High pitched, pathetic noises slip past the gag, and I bite back a smile.
"Here's what we're going to do," I start, crouching so I'm eye level with the little piece of shit. "You get ten minutes to run. I'm even going to set a timer, so it's fair and square. Ten minutes, and then I'm coming after you."
I stand back up, eyeing my weapon of choice. "Rifles are not quick or easy to aim, and they're heavier than other firearms. I gave you an advantage, so I want you to use it. Of course, I've never missed a shot in my life, so you tell me how good you think that makes your odds."
The guy is now sobbing, and while that would normally prompt me to keep taunting him, it only grates on my fucking nerves right now. I don't even feel like rubbing his crime in his face, going on some extended monologue about the fact that he killed an entire family and subjected a child to trauma that will likely last a lifetime.
Cazzo. There really is something wrong with me.
"You get twenty minutes," I snarl, seeing red. "I'm in the mood for a little more of a challenge tonight."
I turn and stalk down the gravel road. The sound of frantic footsteps pounds away from me, and I tilt a grim smile up to the night sky. This never gets old. Simo is the only one who knows about this little game I like to play. He gets me the names and addresses of people like this guy—scum of the earth who have done awful things—and when I need an outlet, I get to have my fun.
I stare down at the small 'S' branded into the inside of my wrist. I can almost feel the fire tracing the raised path of the letter on my skin, the promise it carries. The next twelve days couldn't pass quickly enough.
This is child's play compared to what that will be.
But while tonight will serve to get me out of this weird fucking headspace I've found myself in—at least for a few hours—I have a feeling that I need to do more than blow off some steam. Ever since I killed Luciano's mistress, I've had a small pebble in the back of my throat that refuses to go away.
It's grown into a fucking boulder by now, and I'll do anything to get rid of it. I'm not at the top of my game, and that frustrating reality is glaringly exemplified by my failure in that cell. With Nina.
I don't fail. Not at torture. It's what I'm branded for, the one thing I've been counting on since I can remember. The memory of her blood coating the smooth plane of her porcelain chest invades my consciousness. The way her head hung, and that wild hair fell over her face after she passed out.
I almost snap the rifle in half.
She's so small, so fragile. I could have done more. I could have broken her, and it would have been incredible. One measly cut was nothing. It was shallow; it bled excessively because it was a neck wound. The mental picture of her frailty assaults my senses again. The itch in my hands becomes unbearable, and there's a fucking avalanche in my throat. When the rubble settles, I'll be back to my normal self.
She'll be fun to break. While she's weak, she has a surprising defiant spark in those round, golden eyes, a streak of rebellion that will make her bend first. But she will break. I always get them to break.
I growl, pacing to stop the itching in my hands that begs me to put the rifle to use right now. The fucker still has three minutes. Time feels like it's trickling by at a pace personally crafted to drive me fucking insane.
It doesn't help that, despite trusting Simo with my life, I feel uneasy about leaving Nina back in Chicago. Without me.
The timer goes off.
I cock the rifle, stalking into the trees.
I'm sure that when I can get my hands on her again, this uneasiness will fade.
+
It's a fourteen-hour drive from Dallas to Chicago.
My mind is still a warzone—which isn't unusual after what I've just done. It takes me a few days to enter what many would call a sane headspace, and I always prefer to be alone during that time. So, I decide to make the drive without stopping.
This turns out to perhaps not be the best idea when I stop to get gas, and an old lady nearly passes out on the asphalt when she sees me step out of my car.
"Fuck you looking at?" I snap, and her hands tremble as she clutches the hood of her car for support. Her eyes trail down my body, and I look down at my shirt.
"Ah, right," I frown at the blood dried all the way down the front of it. "Forgot about that. You know, I normally bring a change of clothes. Was too preoccupied this time." She cries out in fear as I zip my gaze back to her. "That ever happen to you? You get so in your head that you just forget the most basic shit?"
Something drops from my clothing to the ground, and we both peer down at it. I hum absentmindedly. "Brain matter," I tell her with a mock wince. "Did you know that it's grey because of the high concentration of neuronal cell—alright, never mind," I sigh as she scrambles away from me, disappearing inside.
Sighing, I start filling my tank. Through the gas station's wall of windows, I can see the senior citizen I nearly sent into cardiac arrest gesticulating frantically to the cashier, pointing in my direction.
I check my watch. Simo was expecting me back yesterday. Too bad, because I've still got nine hours left to go.
My phone buzzes. Speak of the devil. I pick up, noticing a police car pull up a few pumps down. The old crone sees this from inside and her face lights up like a Christmas tree.
"Santo." My brother's voice sounds thin, forewarning me that he can't be calling with good news, and I immediately become alert.
"What's happened?"
"You were supposed to be back yesterday."
"I'll be back this evening. What's going on?"
He sighs. "Luciano Genovese has been calling in debts. Every one of his regulars from Vegas to Topeka has been paid a visit, and seven bodies have piled up."
The self-appointed matriarch of this shitty fucking gas station has finally made it to the cop and begins her whole routine of violent gesticulation towards me. I carefully replace the nozzle, my phone pressed between my ear and shoulder.
"What do you think he's up to?"
"The bodies have ties to his sex trafficking ring. Looks like he's out to get what's owed him."
My eyes narrow. What a piece of fucking scum. "This isn't unusual behavior for Luciano, but I don't like how close he's getting. He knows if he moves women in our territory, he's fucking done for."
"Exactly. He's two state lines away, and I don't like it. I've called in a favor with an old associate who operates mostly in Luciano's territory. Moretti—you remember him. He's coming to the house. He has contacts in Missouri who might give me insight into Luciano's next move."
My muscles tense. Isaac Moretti—trusted associate and a total fucking sleaze. The man tries to stick his dick into any living, breathing creature with tits. And I couldn't care less what he does with his dick—except there's now a small woman living in my house, with honeyed eyes and the most ridiculously unruly hair that falls across her shoulders in a way that practically begs you to notice her tits. Tits that sway with every movement, and are more noticeable than she realizes, even covered with those ridiculous baggy t-shirts she's been wearing.
My eye twitches. "I'll be back shortly."
I hang up, right as the cop approaches me with a hand on his gun holster. Granny hangs back, glaring at me with her bony arms crossed.
"Morning, officer." I give him a sharp grin.
"Sir, I'm going to need to see some identification." The poor guy looks nervous as hell. He can't be much older than me.
"Shit, I left it back at home. I can get it for you, but it's a bit of a drive. How much time you got?" I frown, running a hand slowly through my hair. His eyes follow the movement, and he pales.
Absentmindedly, I twist the gold signet ring on my index finger. I wear several rings, but this one stands out. His throat bobs as he gulps, and he takes three wobbly steps back.
"N-never mind. I apologize for the inconvenience, Mr. Romano."
I smirk at the old prune, who looks absolutely horrified that she didn't get to witness the carrying out of justice at the world's dingiest gas station at 9 a.m.
Sliding back into my car, I feel an odd foreboding darkening my brow. I don't care if fucking Moretti wants to put his hands on Luciano's not so precious daughter. Except for the fact that I've already claimed her as mine to mess with.
If some other man wants to breathe near her, he'll be lucky if he takes another breath.
I burn rubber back to Chicago, and by the time I pull haphazardly into the courtyard, I'm wound tight and out for blood. So much for coming back with a clear head.
---
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- G