Page 58 of Death's Deal

I give her the details and as I finish, she replies, “That’s a tough decision, but you made the right choice in calling. Consider it done.”

With the line falling dead, pocketing my phone, flaring my nostrils, blowing out a heavy breath and feeling a newer strain of pain piling onto my shoulders, I pull the handle for the door. I remind myself; this very well could be my last decision as the President of Hades Army. It very well could mean the end of the club.

IhateI have to do it.

Ihopemy sister can forgive me.

Ihopeshe survives tohateme for it.

Chapter 32

Walking in, the brightlight beams. It showcases the natural state of Humble: dim, dark, and seedy. The once sultry space, with its plush purple-and-crimson cushions, dark mahogany woodwork moldings and furniture, is starkly disgusting with the lights on full. Humble has always been a simple pinhole of light protruding through the mire. This? The gleaming hell broadcasts the stark government goons in their 1930’s gangster attire. In the velvety red room of Humble, they look like an old timey noir picture.

Wearing a peachy, clearly expensive dress shirt with pastel-blue pants, his right arm is tied up in a bright azure sling. The smile on his face gives off an air of comfort that in no way he should possess.

Murianos is at ease. A man such as Murianos should be behind bars rotting or in the ground, not seemingly content in the company of those he attempted to destroy. He is far more relaxed than he should be. I’d like nothing more than to shoot him in the face, stake his heart, and chop him into steak tartare before feeding him to the gulls at the pier.

Pulling my gun, pointing it at Murianos and cocking the hammer, I narrow my eyes at his smarmy grin. “Tempt me.”

“Death, it’s lovely to see you.” Dragging out the word lovely as if we’re long-lost friends, the hairs on the back of my neck stick up so hard they’ll never come down. “Mayate was just highlighting to all of us his disgust with this interaction as well. I expected no less from you.” With his accented voice, thick and posh sounding, using the demeaning nickname he had given Busta while he was in the Huesos fight rings, Murianos is comfortable. Anyone else but Murianos would be uncomfortable, but he feels superior and sassy in our company.

Through gritted teeth, I growl, “I’d love nothing more than to change your perspective, asshole.”

Shifting from me to Busta, then to Toni, his leery gaze makes my skin crawl as he addresses me with a gleam in his eye, “You’ve been hiding this beauty all to yourself.” With a sizable grin, he talks to her directly, “I must admit. You’re quite a lovely woman, considering your parentage, Ms. Morriso.”

As his darkened eyes travel the length of Toni, tearing her down inch by inch, inspecting her and marginalizing her beauty, I become exceedingly jealous and protective. Taking two steps, placing her just behind me, I know all it would take is a simple pull of the trigger to eradicate him.

“Give me a reason. A simple blink will do. Trust me, I’d love nothing more than to splatter your brains across the dancers’ stage. So, make me do it. Please. Just one more comment about Toni and I’ll gladly ask Teary Cleary and Misty to Jell-O wrestle in your gray matter when we open in a few hours. Believe me, I won’t lose a wink of sleep if I go back to jail over your death.”

“Tut, tut. That’s no way to act. I’m unarmed and clearly no threat.” Raising his left hand and slung right, showing he’s without a weapon, to us, those who have come across his cunning, we know that doesn’t mean he’s not a threat. It just means he cannot return fire.

I’ll admit; even though he is dressed well-appointed he looks worn out and disheveled. The peach is somewhat subdued, and the suit almost seems thread-worn. Though, in my opinion, he should be in a plastic bag floating off the coast of Africa, not sitting here smugly, breathing like the disgusting prick he is.

Tearing my eyes from him, and not giving him the satisfaction of my ire, I noticed Miss, Trigger, and Joker are sitting in the plush velvet red chairs, guarded by no less than two agents apiece. Stewing with a brewing anger, each with guns pointed in their direction, we all know we’re outnumbered. Busta and Cap, who are standing uncomfortably yet deadly, are staring down the man who had so graciously orchestrated our demise.

He cuts the tension with a simple sentence, placing a heavy accent on the first words. “We—cannot have you killing him, Bennett,” Johnson states. Lifting my eyes from Murianos to the agents surrounding us, their guns are pointed at my chest and head.

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