Page 42 of The Ripper

“I’ll be there in five,” I said, suddenly turning left into oncoming traffic to overtake the car in front of me.

Just what I needed after being shot in a park and leaving the only good thing in my life. A carnage fest.

~ Sounds like fun to me.

“Grimm,” my father’s voice interrupted my thoughts.

“What?”

“Did you, by any chance, kill a man called Justin Fowler?”

~ You have got to be shitting me.

“What does that piece of human scum have to do with anything?”

“He owed the Italians a considerable amount of money,” he explained, sounding rather annoyed with the situation, seemingly unfazed by the fact that Klaus was perhaps knee-deep in shit.

“So?” I gritted my teeth as I parked my car.

“So, they want their money, son,” he explained casually.

“How much?” I got out of the car and opened the trunk.

Shots rang out in the night, making my skin crawl.

“Ten million. Euro, not dollars,” my father replied, and I felt dizzy.

“I’ll pay.” I put the phone on speaker and strapped a holster to my thigh, then shoved three blades in place.

Why did I choose to drive the only car that didn’t have any guns in it?

~ Because you didn’t want her to see them?

“Oh?” He seemed surprised. “Then I’d like to meet her.”

I cursed, then hung up and slammed the trunk shut before walking closer to the building, adrenaline spiking within me as I approached the door. I didn’t like bringing knives to a gun party, but unfortunately, I had no other choice.

A sudden silence fell over the space as I stopped next to the side entrance of the warehouse.

~ Try not to get us killed today, ok?

I opened the door and walked inside, the coppery smell of blood lingering in the air. A lot of it, so much that I could taste it on my tongue. I walked through the narrow corridor that led to the garage and stopped at the ajar door to peer through the gap as I pulled a knife out of the holster.

~ Shit!

I expected a considerable number of members of the Italian mafia to be present, but I didn’t expect their fucking soon-to-be leader to be present.

Damiano Volta, in the flesh.

I would have been honored if the bastard wasn’t standing next to Klaus, who was now tied to a chair, a knife buried in his stomach, the bodies of his cleaners scattered lifelessly across the concrete floor.

The Italian wanker came with an army, and Klaus’ men weren’t trained enough for this kind of battle, mostly because the laundromat wasn’t a place our enemies usually attacked, but Damiano knew my weakness.

One of them, at least.

My little brother.

I bit the inside of my cheek and cursed internally, mostly because Damiano and I functioned on the same kind of drug, namely mayhem, and I stood no chance without reinforcements.

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