Page 42 of Diamond In The Rough

We’re only ten minutes from home, and another five or so after that, we’ll reach a small cabin-like space surrounded by thick trees on the outer edges of our property. We call it the bunker, though it could be described as a hut. Most importantly, it’s secluded, and even if not soundproof, the dense canopy and countless tree trunks circling it provide a barrier.

No one other than us will hear a man scream.

“You came out of nowhere, Conlon.” After we arrive at the bunker and drag the bleeding prick from the trunk, Felix sheds his jacket. His tie. Even his shirt, since it’s so fucking hot today. He paces a half-circle in front of the chair we long ago attached to the concrete floor. The bolts, almost as thick as my thumbs. The chains, heavy enough to make a man reconsider his life choices. And he carries a tire iron so heavy, it surely belongs in a truckyard.

Though, in his defense, I’ve never seen him actually swing it; not in all the times we’ve brought men out here.

“Wilkes hops a boat and sails into my country, into my fuckin’ city, and makes a mess of things straight outta the gate. And you thought, Shit, that looks like fun. I might try it?”

“I need a doctor.” Conlon slumps in his chair, his thigh bone jutting out high enough to lift his jeans, while blood drains down into, and from, his shoe. Oops. “You need to put me in a car, Malone, and send me to the hospital.”

“Yeah? Well, you need to not speak our name.” Slowly, I push my jacket off and hang it on a peg by the door. Because we’re classy and organized, and dropping our things on the floor is unsophisticated. “You slit a woman’s throat last night. And mentioned another woman who matters to me.”

Felix looks over his shoulder, his brow quirking high with curiosity.

“You didn’t have to do either,” I continue. “The sex worker was doing her job. And Ms. Cannon is off-limits for you.” I unbutton my cufflinks and set the gold squares in my pockets. “But I will admit, I’m genuinely intrigued by your intentions. Did you want Felix’s attention, all so you’d end up right here? Sitting in a rat-infested forest, where the animals will pick your bones clean by morning? Or did you think you’d shoot him in the head outside a funeral parlor this morning, and start a war?”

“Hospital,” he sneers. Then he spits out a mouthful of gunk, blood and snot hitting the floor in a lumpy, gross pile that makes my nose twist. “I’m not talking.”

“I’m not sure you’re reading me correctly, bud.” I roll my sleeves up, one slow fold at a time, until the fabric stops at my elbows. Then I saunter to the back wall and peruse my options.

Blades. Cradles. Forks. Fire.

I select a simple pair of scissors, since I like to begin with a clear playing field. Then, turning on my heels, I meander closer and eye the bone, pressing against his jeans. “What was your intention, Conlon? Regardless, it was a kamikaze mission. So what did you want out of this?”

“Fuck you!” He rattles his chains, squirming in his chair. But the seat doesn’t move. We’ve had larger, stronger, better men in this room over the years, and not once has the structure budged. “Wilkes is gonna cut your cock off!” he seethes. “He’s gonna destroy you.”

“That’s a start, at least.” I grab the leg of his jeans between my thumb and pointer finger, and pulling up, I start cutting away the fabric and reveal the bone already piercing through skin. “We’ve confirmed you’re Wilkes’ man.” I make slow slices, absorbing the sound of the sharp blades passing through stiff denim. “And you slit a woman’s throat last night—on Wilkes’ orders?”

“She tried to rip us off. So we made an example of her.”

“Alright.”

I continue around his thigh, pulling the scissors away and starting on the side closest to me. “But then you spoke Christabelle Cannon’s name.” Behind me, Felix bristles. “That was the Bat-Signal, bud. So now I’m gonna ask you really nicely,” setting my scissors down, I carefully pull the released denim along his leg and down, to pool by his bound ankle.

Blood gushes from his wound: it’s possible the bone has nicked a pretty important artery. It’ll make a mess, but he won’t bleed out just yet.

Unbothered, I look up into his eyes and wait. “Why’d you call her out like that, knowing it would get back to us?”

His gaze burns with hatred. With fury. And, for a brief moment, with fearlessness. “Fuck. You.”

I grab the section of bone protruding from his leg and give it a tug, stealing his courage and eliciting a high-pitched scream.

“Why’d you call her out?”

“Stop!” He squeals like a baby pig, thrashing in his seat and making his pain worse when my hand remains still so it’s him moving the bone. “Fucking prick! Stop.”

“What are Wilkes’ plans?”

“Screw y?—”

I tug again, tearing his skin, and lean to the right when he whips to my left, spewing nasty liquid to splash on the concrete.

“What are Wilkes’ plans?” I soften my voice. Engage in psychological warfare as I release his leg and smile.

So few men get to see my lips hitch. If they knew the circumstances for which I save my best ones, they’d be thankful for what they’ve missed out on.

“Your injuries are flirting with your femoral artery, Conlon. Which means if you keep fighting me, the vein may open completely. Once that happens, you have about thirty seconds till it’s lights out. So,” I leave his leg alone and push up to stand, accepting a rag when Felix offers it. Wiping my hands, I back away and leisurely stroll the small room. “What are Wilkes’ plans?”

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