Authors note: Hello people of Wattpad, I'm rewriting my authors note about a year after finishing this story and its the weirdest feeling ever, I feel so old.
PLEASE NOTE: A Criminal's Kiss was my first proper story on Wattpad and its far far from perfect. Before you start reading you should know that there are plenty of mistakes and parts that need work and the plot is all over the place, but chances are that everything is being worked on. It is also quite short (which some might like) and therefore might seem rushed (which some might not like). I just wanted to explain this before you start reading so I didn't get the same comments telling me the same thing (although I do appreciate almost every single comment I get, whether it's constructive criticism or praise).
Also, this first chapter does contain violence/killing. Nothing too bad but if you know you don't like that sort of thing then please keep that in mind.
If I haven't put you off already, then I hope you enjoy it!
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I lit my cigarette and put the lighter back in my pocket, eyeing the man on the floor cautiously. He lay broken and battered; his face swollen, his nose bleeding, his arms and legs broken.
All because of me.
Did I feel the guilt? The pity? The remorse?
The answer was short and harsh.
No.
I took a long drag of smoke from the cigarette in my hands. I was meant to have quit a while back but it calmed me down, especially in situations like this.
I shook my head and turned back to the helpless man before me on the floor. "Please...," he sobbed quietly, "I have a wife and two kids at home. They need me."
I raised an eyebrow at the familiar line and turned to look my brother, Aaron. "What do you think Ary? Does he deserve to be spared?"
Aaron strolled forward and grabbed the man by his tie, yanking him up to stand on his feet. I tried not to roll my eyes at the clichéness of it all. Aaron liked to watch Mafia films. He really liked to watch Mafia films.
"Tell me Mr. Jones, when we came to get our money, why didn't we get it?" Aaron asked menacingly, not letting go.
"B-because I d-didn't have it," Mr. Jones stuttered.
Aaron threw a punch at his stomach, causing Mr. Jones to double up in pain.
Mr. Jones was in his late 40s. He had a balding head which was shining with sweat and his eyes were wide in panic. He wore a suit that would have been fairly nice if it hadn't been for the fact that it was incredibly tight around his rather short and chubby frame. Judging by his physical appearance he really wasn't built to take punches.
"I know that Mr. Jones," Aaron gritted his teeth, "the question is; why did you not have it?"
"M-my wife asked to use the money for a new car," he wheezed.
"Oh how nice. Did your wife like the car?" Another voice filled the empty warehouse and I turned to find my two other brothers, Jake and Marcus, making their way towards us.
"She er... she..."
"Martin, would you care to share with us, what car you bought with our money?" Jake asked folding his arms over his chest and narrowing his eyes at Mr. Jones, who gulped, clearly finding the gesture threatening.
"It was a...a..." Mr. Jones trailed off. The muscle in Marcus' jaw twitched and I smirked, realizing that I wasn't the only one that had noticed the uncertainty in Martin's voice when he had lied.
"Mr. Jones, I don't believe you used the money for the car, did you?" Marcus asked.
I raised an eyebrow, Mr. Jones was lying. He was in trouble now. If there was one thing Aaron hated most, it was a liar.
Aaron had always hated liars. He may have been a ruthless criminal, but if there was one thing he expected from everyone, it was the truth.
When we were a lot younger, our parents passed away. Unlike me, he was able to understand what was going on, but not completely as he was barely eight. However, just like any other eight year old he could put two and two together so he knew that something was up, even though nobody would tell him. When all our other brothers got upset, Aaron did too, even though he wasn't sure why. The social workers ended up lying to him and telling him that our parents had gone away for awhile and would be back soon. When they didn't come back Aaron found out and it broke his heart, he screamed and cried and they shoved him in therapy, but I guess it was just one of those things that left you scarred. In Aaron's case, it made him hate liars. Which in some ways wasn't so bad, it could have been a lot worse.
"I-" Mr. Jones was cut short by Aaron who brought his fist down onto his face.
Mr. Jones let out a cry of pain and hid his face in his hands, when he moved his hands away, Aaron grabbed him by the collar and leaned in so that his face was centimeters away from Martins.
"Liar," he hissed.
"Aaron, calm down," Jake said, before turning to look at me, "Skye, will you take care of him?"
I shrugged and looked down at Mr. Jones, who was groaning loudly in pain.
"Sure thing, Jakey," I said grinning at him, only to have him roll his eyes at me.
"How many times do I have to tell you not to use the nicknames when we're at work?" he said.
"You love my nicknames and you know it," I said before turning back to Mr. Jones.
"I hate your nicknames and I know it," Jake corrected.
Jake was probably the only brother that could treat a situation like this as a joke. He was the most carefree out of all my brothers and that also meant that he was the loudest and funniest one. Without him around life would be a lot more boring.
"Don't be too harsh on him," Marcus warned.
"Where's the fun in that?" I asked, taking another drag from my cigarette, before flicking it in the direction of Mr. Jones, who hissed in pain when the cigarette brushed against his arm, burning the skin.
Marcus laughed, "Skye, the poor guy doesn't want to spend his last few minutes on earth being tortured by the likes of you."
Marcus was probably the most sensible sibling out of all of us. He too enjoyed cracking a joke every now and then but he knew how important it was to have someone around who was level headed and could take charge.
"By the likes of me? I'm not that bad!" I protested.
"Yes you are!" Jake shouted.
I shrugged and pulled out my pink Swiss army knife. I loved that thing more than life itself. Marcus, Jake, Aaron and my other brother, Elliot, had gotten me it for my sixteenth birthday and ever since, it had been my favorite weapon to use for torture. Yes, it was pink and yes, it wasn't exactly a gun but it had a special place in my heart.
I flicked it open and admired the way the blade glinted in the sunlight for a moment, before returning my gaze to Mr. Jones, who looked from me to the knife in horror.
That horrified look was one I witnessed almost daily. That look when the prey knew that predator had got him. That look when the victim knew what was coming next.
I still remembered the first time I saw that look; it had been on a police officer's face four years ago. It was after he had caught me and Aaron with a suitcase full of cannabis in our hands, on our way to do something not at all legal. Aaron had been calm of course, this happened to him all the time. He had simply placed the suitcase on the floor and swung a punch at him, easily making him fall to the floor before he attacked him. But that wasn't the part that had affected me the most. It was his screams of pain that I remembered, the way he begged for us to let him go. I also remembered what I had done to him next. Aaron had thrust the gun into my hands and I had stared at it in shock, knowing exactly what he wanted me to do, but somehow not believing I could do it.
I had held the gun out in front of me, trying to ignore the horrified look on the officer's face as I pulled the trigger.
That horrified look was the same one I saw almost every day, on a different face, in a different location. But it was still that same look of horror, of fear.
I turned back to the man, my face cold and emotionless, "Don't worry, I'll make this quick, we have places to be anyway," I told him.
"P-please, I swear it won't happen again," he pleaded.
Those words echoed in my head, making me remember the police officer. He had said similar words and he had begged just as Mr. Jones was doing right now, but even back then I hadn't stopped. I hadn't thought about what I was actually doing. I hadn't thought about the consequences that would come with it. And I wasn't going to stop and think about it now.
I raised an eyebrow, "It won't?"
Mr. Jones shook his head slowly, "It won't!"
I let out a small humorless chuckle, "Mr. Jones, do you know how many times I've heard that before?"
He shook his head.
"More times than I can count. And after the first few times I learned something. Do you know what I learned Mr. Jones?"
He didn't answer.
"Do you know what I learned, Martin?" I asked again, raising my voice.
He shook his head.
"I learned that when somebody says that 'it won't happen again' it always does. Every. Single. Time."
"Oh," he whispered.
"It's a shame really Mr. Jones, because if it didn't happen again then I probably wouldn't be doomed to eternal damnation." I smiled sadly at him, "But then again Mr. Jones, maybe I'll see you in hell in a couple years time."
"Hell?" he echoed.
"Well, Mr. Jones, I highly doubt you'll be going to heaven," I paused dramatically. Maybe Aaron wasn't the only one watching too many Mafia films. "Especially not considering that secret little affair you've been having with your secretary."
"Y-you know about that?"
I nodded. This man may not deserve to die, but unlike that police officer, this man had done something wrong, something I wanted to punish him for. Maybe I was just looking for excuses, but it made me feel a lot better knowing that he wasn't just an innocent man.
"H-how did you find out?"
"Mr. Jones, let me ask you something. Do you know who we are? Who my brothers and I are?"
"T-the Morenos," he whispered.
"Us Moreno's...what do we do exactly?" I asked.
"You kidnap, you kill, you make money from drugs, guns, knives..." he trailed off, in disgust.
"Well done, Mr. Jones! You sure do know your facts don't you? If you know all of that then you must know that us Morenos, we do have power and authority... and some people just don't seem to respect that. Do you know what happens to those people?" I asked him.
"You kill them?" He said, making it sound more like a question than an answer.
"Exactly. It's a shame that you are one of those people, isn't it Mr. Jones?"
He didn't reply, instead he stared at the ground.
"Bad things happen to bad people," I said, letting the knife linger near his neck, before moving it along his jaw line, watching the thick scarlet blood roll down his neck as he let out a hiss of pain. I scowled when I heard him whimper, knowing that that wasn't hurting him as much as it should be. I dragged the knife down his arm, slowly and painfully. The rip of fabric was the only sound I paid attention to as I slowed to a stop and met his terrified gaze. "But if bad people are careful," I moved my hand so that the knife was in front of his large stomach, "then things like this don't happen to them."
I didn't wait for him to reply, instead I leaned down and thrust the knife into his stomach, quickly pulling it out and taking a step back just in time to avoid the blood that soaked through his neatly ironed, white shirt.
As the smell of blood filled the small, cramped warehouse, I felt that same sensation I had felt all those years ago. I felt sick. I felt disgusted. I wanted to run out of the building and throw up. But I didn't.
Instead I stared at him as he rolled around the floor. I listened to his shallow breaths as they slowed while his eyes struggled to stay open. I heard as his groans of agony became soft murmurs.
I watched him die that day.
Just like I watched that police officer die.
Just like a watched hundreds of other people die.
Just like I watched the old Skye Moreno die four years ago.
I turned around, ready to walk away from the bloody scene, but I stopped and turned back, to face Mr. Jones' almost fully motionless body.
"Always remember one thing, Mr. Jones: nobody messes with the Moreno's and gets away with it."
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Authors note: Its bad, but I swear I'm editing it
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