Page 35 of Dark Romeo

“You will stay at one of our apartments here in the city. I’ve already organized for the current tenants to move out. I’ll arrange for the stuff in your London apartment to be packed up and shipped back.”

“I don’t give a shit what you do with my stuff,” I muttered.

He snorted. “Wasteful, ungrateful son of a bitch. If your mother were alive?—”

I saw red. “You think she’d approve of what you’ve turned this family into, huh? Mama would turn over in her fucking grave if she knew what you did to our family, that you killed her eldest son with your?—”

My father’s fist lashed out faster than I could react. It slammed against my cheek, knocking my face aside, a burst of pain exploding through my cheekbone. Before I could react, he grabbed my chin with his meaty hand and yanked me forward. He leaned in, his eyes like coals burning into me. Suddenly I was twelve again. “If you ever talk to me like that again I will shred you down to your worthless bones with my bare hands. I brought you into this world, I will fucking take you out of it if I have to.”

He shoved me back, a snarl of disgust on his face. I turned my face away from him, my hands fisted by my sides, my face throbbing on the left side. I could feel a small trickle of blood running down to my jaw, probably from where one of his fat gold rings broke open my skin, but I didn’t wipe it away. Fury whirled around my body like a tornado.

I had a looming sense, a premonition, that this would end with my father and me facing off. Only one of us would walk away.

The limo rolled to a stop and I flinched. I hadn’t been paying attention to our surroundings.

“Get out.”

Thank fuck this conversation was over.

“Always a pleasure, Dad.” I didn’t wait for the driver. I kept my fury tightly packed into my veins and threw the door open myself. I stepped out. And froze.

We weren’t at my new apartment.

We were at the docks, the smell of salt in the air, parked in front of a dark-looking warehouse, several men with large guns—AK-47s to be precise, judging from the shape and size of them—standing guard at a door, a single floodlight illuminating the entrance, corrugated iron surrounding it. The limo doors opened behind me. Abel and my father got out of the car.

“What are we doing here?” I asked, trying not to let any fear leak into my voice.

Abel sneered at me. I recognized the same smug satisfaction in his face as earlier. I should have picked up on it before. I should have known something was up.

My father merely leveled a cool stare at me. “We’re turning you into a man, my son.”

ROMAN

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Inside the warehouse, I walked down a dark corridor, my father and two of his men in front of me, Abel behind me, herding me like an animal. The only sound was the echoing of our footsteps and the thud of my heart in my chest. No one would tell me what we were doing here. I knew better than to ask again.

I ignored the apprehension swirling around me and strode onwards with my chin held high. My father and his men were like dogs. If you showed them fear, they would smell it, sense it, and they would tear you to shreds.

We came to a locked door up ahead. One of the guards pushed in a pin code and a beeping noise sounded. The door ahead clicked open. We gathered into a small security chamber, an iron coffin with yet another door ahead locked by yet another pin code. Abel closed the door behind us, trapping us, the lock clicking into place. I could already feel the oxygen running out in this tiny room, filling instead with the stench of sweat and stale cigarettes. In the top corner of the chamber, the black eye of a camera stared down at us.

The next door beeped, unlocked and opened, a rush of air flooding the cramped space as I moved forward. The room I stepped into was dark around the edges so I couldn’t quite make out how large it was. I could sense the watchful eyes like hungry beasts around the edges of firelight. I could make out the shadow of pointed guns. The scent of acrid vomit filled my lungs. I repressed a gag. Underneath it, was the smell of piss and the metallic scent of blood.

A single spotlight cut through the darkness, falling on a man tied to a chair. Jesus Christ. His face had been beaten beyond recognition. All that remained was a swollen mass like a bunch of overripe grapes about to burst. Slits were all that were left of his eyes and mouth. He was covered in blood, drenched in it as if someone had showered him with it, now clumped and coagulating in places.

By his chair was a small silver trolley. Various knives, a large needle and other sharp metal implements were laid out on it, along with vials of liquid, everything smeared with blood.

My stomach curdled. I fought to keep the horror from my face. I spun around to my father, standing by my side, his face impassive, merely studying me. I’d always known that he did these kinds of things. Until now I’d been spared the morbid exhibition. I was no stranger to violence; I had inherited the Tyrell temper and had started more than my share of fights, but this was different. This was joyful pleasure in the prolonged pain of another. I didn’t think I’d ever hated my father more in my entire life.

“What the hell is this?” I demanded. Was this a demonstration of what he’d do to me if I disobeyed him? Some fucked up way of warning me to keep in line?

“He’s one of Veronesi’s men,” my father said.

I stiffened. The Veronesis were the rival family blamed for the massacre that had killed Jacob. I turned back to the Veronesi man, my head spinning. I hated whoever killed Jacob. But every slice of me was crying out that this display of torture was wrong. “Did he actually pull the trigger?” I bit out.

I heard a voice inside of me, laughing. Your father’s right. You are soft.

“He sides with the Veronesis, which means he as good as pulled the trigger.”

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