Page 11 of Devil Mine

Hismoney.

He’s standing in front of him now, his back square to me. He’s poised with his legs apart, his posture relaxed, his left hand bringing the glass to his lips, his right buried in the pocket of his trousers.

His suit is fitted. Designer. Expensive. Not what I expected. Not a thug.

Even from the back, he screams power. It exudes from his frame, falling off him in almost suffocating waves, making him seem larger than he is.

And he’s big. Six foot four at least, with broad shoulders. Slopping, strong arms that bulge against the trappings of his suit. The only visible skin I can see is that of his hand and his neck, and every inch of it is tattooed. Two wings emerge from the collar of his dress shirt and spread out on either side of his nape. His black hair is short at the back and on the sides, and longer on top. More tattoos crawl up the back of his head, disappearing under his hair – roses, a crown, a massive skull, and words I can’t make out from this angle, stamped along the side.

Sick fascination – there’s no other way to describe what I’m feeling – momentarily stuns me.

I’ve never met someone who looks like him.

He nods at Paunchy Guy who steps forward and grabs a chair, placing it next to my father.

“What are you doing?”

He starts thrashing when the same man grabs him by the shoulder and lunges for his arm.

“No! No, what are you doing! Let me go!” A blood curdling scream rips from his lips. Younger Guy grabs a couple sheets of paper from his desk, bunches them and shoves them down his throat, effectively silencing him.

Paunchy Guy punches my father in the face. Disoriented, he stops fighting for a moment. Paunchy Guy takes advantage of that mistake to grab his arm and pin it on the chair.

“Push his sleeve up.”

When Younger Guy pulls a long, thin machete from under his suit my father screams once more, although the sound comes out garbled around the paper. He flails about, trying to get away, but there’s no give.

Younger Guy approaches him with the machete. It glints sickeningly in the light and I feel my stomach threaten to turn.

I slap a palm over my mouth to stifle my scream.

“Please, I’ll pay,” my father begs. A sour smell hits my nostrils, followed quickly by the awful realization that fear made him relieve himself.

Younger Guy laughs cruelly. “He pissed himself, the disgusting fucker. Are you afraid,cabrón?”

“I need you to pay that money back, Alex, so unfortunately I can’t kill you,” the boss says, ignoring his man. “Doesn’t mean I can’t start cutting little chunks off you, piece by piece, until you’ve paid me back in full.”

Another nod and Younger Guy places the machete on the area where my father’s arm meets his shoulder. He’s outright sobbing now, a sight I’ve never seen before.

I have no idea what to do. I can’t interfere, I can’t watch.

I can’t look away.

Both my hands are pressed against my mouth to keep the screams that demand to be set free from bursting past my lips.

Younger Guy raises his machete.

My eyes flutter shut.

“On second thought.”

They fly back open at the words. The machete is down against Younger Guy’s side. The boss leans forward and pats my father’s cheek twice, hard, the gesture humiliating in its disdain.

“The only person I’d be punishing by cutting your arm off is the cleaning lady who’d have to scrub your blood off the floor. As it is, she’s already going to have to clean your piss out of the carpet.”

“Thank you,” my father mumbles.

The boss straightens and laughs. His entire frame shakes, the honeyed sound thick with obvious amusement.

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