Page 79 of City of Wind and Lies

"No, I'm fine, really," I insist.

"Bowie will string me up and bleed me dry if I don't make sure you're okay," he grumbles, flexing his grip on the steering wheel.

"I'll deal with Bowie when he gets home," I reply, my tone carrying a confidence I hope is convincing.

"Fine," he concedes. "But you're resting when we get there and I'm calling Doctor Marino."

"Fair enough." I wipe my sweaty palms across the material of my slacks and tilt my head. "What's in the box?"

Dallas pulls the lid off the small black box in his lap and bile rises in my throat. I don't know what I expected to be inside it, but a severed eyeball with a metal spoon embedded in it definitely was not on my bingo card.

24

"Ilove you, too."

The way my heart swelled with happiness when Wren echoed my feelings and told me she loves me almost made me abandon tonight's activities. Almost.

My fingers drum against the steering wheel, anxious energy bubbling inside me as I drive towards the hangar. I've been waiting weeks to get my hands on Allen. Part of me wants to drag this out, while the other wants to make it quick for my own selfish gains.

I'm itching to get home to Wren and make good on my promise, at least a few times.

When I pull up, Rocco is already waiting outside the side door, a cigarette hanging from his lips as he scrolls on his phone.

Having the guys out scouting the burner cells' locations and Allen's mom's house turned up more leads than we could've hoped for, especially today. Dallas came straight to Vento Ventures after checking in with the guys sitting on the locations and, funny enough, he was familiar with one- the apartment building. Apparently that's where Wren used to live with motherfucking Trey Davis. Pair that with seeing him roll out of Belluci's car that night behind the 708 club, and it's not hard to piece together that he's also working for him.

Gabriel is clearly making moves to take over the drugs in the city, and if the dipshit thinks I'm gonna fight him for it, he's got another thing coming. I don’t give a shit about the drugs. What really pisses me the fuck off, though, is that he had the damn audacity to steal from me. That's a debt I can't wait to collect on.

Volkov and his second caught wind of the bad batches in the city, which made it a lot easier for Rocco and I to secure a meeting with them. I was prepared to pay a stipend from my own pockets to tide them over until they found a new pipeline, but now they just seem more willing to accept a one-time payoff and a quick dissociation between their product and the stepped-on junk being passed around Chicago.

Once I take care of Allen, I'll feel a whole hell of a lot better about leaving Wren here while I head to New York for that meeting.

"Perfect timing, cousin," Rocco smirks as I pace towards him. "Rhodes is stringing up your piñata now."

"Did he put up a fight?"

"A little," Rocco shrugs. "Took an elbow to the nuts when we were loading him up."

I wince in commiseration. "You good?"

He stubs out the cigarette on the heel of his shoe before tossing it aside. "I'll let you know after I get home and make sure they still work."

“C'mon," I laugh, tilting my head toward the door. "I'll let you have the first punch."

We walk inside, where everything is already set up for me. Plastic sheets line the floor behind my jet, and in the center, Allen is chained by his hands from a rafter, feet barely scraping the floor.

His eyes go wide when he sees me, muffled cries coming out from behind his gag as the chains rattle with his thrashing.

I unbutton my cuffs, rolling my sleeves up past my elbows as I make my way to the workbench where various tools for this brand of fun are spread out.

"Take the gag out," I order Rhodes. "I want to hear every last sound the miserable fuck has to offer."

Rhodes roughly tugs the black fabric from Allen's mouth, leaving it hanging loosely around his neck as he steps back. Allen doesn't waste a single second before he's spitting out a string of curses and baseless threats.

"Rocco," I say, testing the weight of a ball peen hammer in my hand as I turn around and offer him the handle. "Take your shot."

My cousin's face lights up like a kid on Christmas as he grips the handle and positions himself in front of Allen. I roll the cigar cutter in my palm as I watch Rocco crank back his hand, swinging the hammer up between Allen's legs with so much force my own balls retreat into my stomach. Allen lets out a blood-curdling scream before his head drops to his chest, evidently passing out from the pain. Grabbing the bucket from beside my feet, I take a step, chucking the cold water on him and snapping him back to consciousness.

"You don't want to sleep now," I chuckle. "You'll miss all the fun."

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