Page 3 of Slaughter

He was all me and my brothers had. I’m the middle son. My mother walked out on us when I was five. She’d had enough of her marriage to a sick, twisted man and three boys who were going to grow up just like him. She had no hope, and we were all damned.

I don’t blame her. Who could? My father was the devil. And the fucker is still alive to this day, working with his demons to rule the world. The only thing I hate is that I grew up just like him. It was inevitable, I guess. And the sad part is, I wouldn’t change my life if I could.

“Just fucking kill me,” the man by the name of Marc growls.

“Not until you tell me what I need to know.” I place my hands in the pockets of my black dress slacks and look down at him. He thrashes in the chair but isn’t going to go far. I put four-inch nails through both his hands, securing him to the chair the moment he arrived.

“I know nothing,” he snaps.

“I don’t believe you.”

He looks up at me—well, the best he can. His right eye is swollen shut thanks to my fist. “I’m telling you the truth.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “The truth is you’re lying.”

“I am not!” he shouts.

I arch a brow at his tone, and he cowers. I smile. “I …”

A knock comes on the door, and I walk over to it, yanking the heavy steel open. “I said don’t disturb me …”

“You have a call, sir,” Kayn, my head of security announces, holding my cell out to me.

I let out a sigh of annoyance and yank the phone from his grasp. I look down to see it’s a blocked number. Not good.

“Hello?”

“We’ve got a problem,” the male’s voice informs me.

“I’m listening.” Kayn moved to stand in front of the guy I have nailed to the chair.

“Preston fucked up.”

My jaw tightens. “How bad?” The bastard is a thorn in my side. Has been since we were kids.

“Bad enough that his sister is in danger.”

And just like that, my already sour mood turns deadly. My hand clenches the cell, and my jaw tightens. “What kind of danger?” I growl.

“I have a reliable source that says she’s on Damon’s radar.”

Fuck!

“Where is she?” I demand, knowing what I have to do. It’s not even a question.

“New York.”

“I’ll call my pilot and get my jet ready—”

“No,” he interrupts me. “That is not your job, Avery. You take care of Preston. Presleigh is on her own.”

“I’ll take care of Preston, but she is—”

“Insignificant,” he argues, interrupting me again.

I bow my head and close my eyes, taking a deep breath. When I say nothing, he continues. “I mean it, Avery. Take care of Preston and Preston only.”

Click.

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