Page 43 of Diamond In The Rough

“To fuck you in the ass and remove you from this city.”

Felix chuckles, stepping forward to fill the space I’ve left. “It’s not that I’m against ass play, Conlon. A little tickle every now and then is good for everyone.” He sets the sharp edge of his tire iron on top of the guy’s knee. “But I like to choose my bed buddies. And you?” He pushes down on the steel, slowly but firmly, pulling a guttural scream from Conlon’s throat as the iron dislocates the kneecap from the rest of the joint. “You’re not it. And neither is Wilkes. Now try again: why us? And why Wilkes?”

“Because you’re the last standing family before Cordoza!” he cries. His face is beetroot red, veins throbbing thick beneath his skin. “Because you’re fucking scum, but control too much of the city. It’s time for new management.”

Pop! Felix tears his kneecap straight off, the detachment audible. But skin still holds everything in, making the guy’s knee a useless sack of meat.

“I guess this is gonna be one of those agree to disagree things. Because I don’t think we should be punished just because a new motherfucker wants to play in our sandbox.” He releases his tire iron, letting it fall to the floor with a clatter that echoes through the mostly barren room. “Now, that’s not to say we wouldn’t be open to sharing a small portion of our sand—ya know, with the right person.”

He turns to the wall and takes down a pair of garden shears. The kind a man might cut an inch-thick branch with. Spinning back, he grins when Conlon releases his bladder, and piss runs along the legs of the chair.

“Unfortunately for you,” Lix wanders forward again, and slowly, torturously, opens the blades, until they’re approximately the thickness of our guest’s thigh bone. “You’re not worthy. And neither is Wilkes. Because in New York, the name of the game is to remain discreet.”

He lowers the shears to position the blades on either side of the protruding bone. “The business, in this city, is about remaining classy. Of course the Feds know what we do, but we’re elegant enough to keep our streets clean. You understand?”

“I don’t?—”

Felix closes the blades, squeezing the bone between them. But they don’t slice through the way the same action would remove a limb from the frangipanis I have at the house. It doesn’t give that same satisfying snip I covet so much.

“You are not being discreet, dickhead. You and Wilkes are like the store-brand version of what we do. You have the weapons, the balls, and the ego, but none of the class. And that’s why,” he opens the blades, only to squeeze them shut again, cracking the bone and destroying another man’s ability to walk. “We won’t share with you.”

“Stop!” Conlon screams. He pukes. And cries. And pisses himself. “Please stop!”

“You’re gonna die today, stupid.” I drop my hands into my pockets and take out my knife. It’s my go-to. My favorite tool to work with. Then I walk forward and gently shuffle my brother aside. “You had to know this was how your day would end. No way you can do what you did last night, wake up today, point a gun at my brother, and expect to get away with it.”

“I was putting you on notice.” His eyes are swollen almost shut. His cheeks, ruddy and bright red. “Wilkes is putting you on notice.”

“Consider us notified.” I flip my blade open and bathe in the sound of steel against steel. “But Wilkes has sacrificed you.” I clap his cheek when his head lolls back, and wait patiently for his eyes to flicker open. “He set you up, knowing this was exactly how things were going to turn out for you. Hey!” I slap him again, and grit my teeth when pain lances along my arm.

“Believe it or not, we’re not a violent bunch. Until forced. But Wilkes…” With a chuckle, I explain, “Wilkes tossed you to the fucking lions. He bloodied you up, slowed you down, and threw you to us just as easily as a man threads a worm onto a hook before casting into the sea.”

“Fuck you,” Conlon garbles, his voice drawling and slurred.

“You’re the worm, don’t you see? We’re the marlin he’s trying to catch. But you could tell us his next move, ya know? Share his intentions, since you owe him no loyalty.”

“Fuck you!”

I open his shirt and reveal six-pack abs. The dude is underfed. Undernourished. But his lean physique makes it possible for me to count his ribs.

“I’m gonna play a little game with you, okay? An anatomical game, if you will.” I press my fingers to his ribs and search for the gaps between. “Our ribs were created to protect our organs. Because, of course, all the organs that sustain you in life are hidden right here, behind this cage.”

“Well, except his brain,” Lix inserts, reaching up and tapping his own temple. “But certain behaviors today have shown he lacks one.”

“I’m gonna slide my knife into your lung.” I set the tip of my blade on his skin, nicking the flesh just enough to draw a droplet of blood to the surface. “And then I’m gonna take it out and put it back in again. Three times?” Playful, I look over my shoulder to Felix. “Three sound okay?”

He snorts, lifting his shoulders in submission. “It’s more than two, less than four. Whatever works for you, bro.”

I nod. “Three.” I bring my focus back to an already floating Conlon. “Which means your lung will collapse, but it’ll also fill with blood. It’s a two-fer, really. And that’s when the game begins. Will you drown first, or suffocate?”

“Wait…” Felix moves in my peripherals. “We have two lungs. Can he not switch Engine One off and use Engine Two?”

“I… I dunno. But it’s not often I get a chance to work on a real-life body. So instead of reading up on that, how’s about we just learn from experience?”

Slowly, I slide my knife between Conlon’s ribs, my hand steady despite my subject’s screams echoing from wall to wall. “What is Wilkes’ next move?”

“I don’t—” He heaves, his breath cutting off, and the sound that comes from his throat turning to a rattle. “I don’t?—”

“Wilkes’ whereabouts?” I pull my knife out and get to work on the second slice. “Where is he laying his head at night?”

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