Page 2 of Isaia

I’m not a monster.

But I can be.

It’s an easy skin to slither into and out of. Just like the leather jacket I’m wearing.

My brothers prefer the perfectly tailored Armani suits that fit them like sin.

Me? I don’t need to dress up to be the devil.

My knuckles slam into Lionel’s face, bone crunching under the force. He stumbles back, coughing blood, choking on his apologies.

I wipe my chin with the back of my hand. “What’s the rule, Lionel?”

He coughs some more, and Maximo tightens his grip on Lionel’s arms, pinned behind his back.

“What’s the rule, motherfucker?”

“No…” he sobs a little, “no dealings with kids.”

“That’s right. No dealings with kids. And what did you do?”

His eyes are pinched closed, blood dripping from his mouth. “I sold… Jesus, Isaia. I’m sorry, man.”

“You sold drugs to kids. Thirteen years old, Lionel. Thirteen.” My rage erupts again, and my fist hits his face once more.

Maximo lets him drop to the ground, where he belongs, and I step back, dragging in a deep breath, reminding myself of Alexius’ orders.

This isn’t a kill mission. It’s a message. A warning. Subtle but uncompromising. But, fuck, I’m practically salivating to put a bullet in this fucker’s head.

I yank Lionel up by his collar, forcing his eyes to meet mine. His breath reeks of fear, his piss-soaked pants clinging to his legs as he quivers like a leaf.

“Please, Isaia. I swear, I won’t?—“

I slam him against the wall, silencing him with a look. I lean in close. “There are consequences when you fuck up like this.”

“I know.” The fucker’s a mess, trembling from head to toe. “I’m sorry.”

“Consider this your last warning.” I let the words hang in the air like the blade of a guillotine. “If I catch you near kids again, I’ll make sure you bleed out slow. You understand?”

“Yes.” The word barely escapes his lips, and I snarl as I let go of him.

“Fucker,” I mutter, turning my back on him. He deserves worse. Much worse. We should be making plans to bury his corpseright now, not dish out warnings like it’s confetti at a goddamn wedding.

I hear footsteps. Quick. Small. And I freeze, both Maximo and I looking in the direction of the sound.

A man rounds the corner, a little girl by his side. Instantly, I’m on high alert.

They shouldn’t be here. No one should be here. This is a disgusting alley, and no one comes here except drug addicts and dealers.

I step forward, wiping my bloody knuckles on my jacket.

The man’s tall, average build, wearing a fake smile like it’s part of his job. But my eyes dart to the girl. Six, maybe seven, clutching a stuffed bear, wide eyes darting between me and the stranger beside her.

Something about the way she stands there, stiff and quiet, doesn’t sit right.

Our stranger’s wearing a brown coat, jeans, shoes—nothing fancy, but clean.

The girl, on the other hand, is squeezed into a pair of pink corduroy pants that are two sizes too small, her legs poking out between the too-tight fabric and her grubby white socks. Her shirt’s stained and twisted, a raggedy hand-me-down faded into a washed-out yellow.

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