Page 7 of Promiscuous Lies

“You’ll never believe it,” Hawke says, almost laughing. “This guy actually left his backdoor unlocked. What an idiot.”

Ford’s gaze slides from his phone to me. “His fucker of a dog bit me.”

“So, did you get rid of the dog?” Eli asks.

“Why would I?” Ford replies, affronted. “I would’ve done the same thing.”

We all stare at him in silence.

I’m never quite sure about Ford’s dry humor, nor do I want to ask him to elaborate if he would’ve bitten someone if they were to break into his home.

Eli grins as he polishes his knife fondly. He’s had that one since his wife threw it into his leg. Love at first sight, apparently, even though she was a hitwoman who was hired to toy with and then kill him.

“I don’t care if you kill this guy, but he is the son of a politician, so this information better be worth it.”

I know my cousin would’ve gotten this man for me even if I didn’t have information to share with him. I do, however, pull an envelope out. When he opens it, his eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. Inside are explicit photos I’d paid someone to download from the computer belonging to the asshole tied to the chair. Very incriminating and graphic images that, once they’re aired, which they will be, will guarantee he won’t make it through his first year in prison. I also gathered this to justify the way that I’m about to destroy his fucking life, irrelevant tothe information I’m about to provide Eli about Posie and her potential connection to the biker gang in Boston.

Before I proceed to enjoy myself torturing the man, I pull Eli to the side. “You said recently you uncovered a spy from Boston Delinquents, didn’t you?” I ask him.

“Yeah. We got rid of him. But I’ve just been in negotiations with their new president, Waylon Striker. Why?”

I contemplate this. It wouldn’t be impossible for their new president to attempt to infiltrate my company. Eli’s businesses and mine are closely linked, considering we’re blood-related and our fathers have worked closely together for almost forty years. And although Eli might be in negotiation with Waylon Striker, it doesn’t mean he’s not gathering his own intel. Negotiations aren’t a done deal or treaty.

“I might have someone associated with them in one of my clubs. It’s a stretch, and I’m not sure, but I’ll look into it.”

He frowns. “One of your men?”

“No, a dancer.”

His brow furrows. “Make sure she’s not an assassin or something.”

“That might be your kink, but it’s not mine,” I say, thinking of the scars that mar the tattoos down his back. Something his wife gave him while he fucked her that he’s very proud to show off.

I’m certainly not kink-shaming. Everyone has their own thing. I, however, prefer carving into other people as punishment, not pleasure.

I take the knife out of Hawke’s hand and sigh with relief as he removes the bag from Trea Lissor’s head. Whenever I’m in this space, about to give in to my darkest of demons and carve messages for fun, I feel most at ease. It’s the only way I’m able to release the stress of my busy life. The only way to satire my inner darkness that’s always clawing to reach the surface.

“Look, man, I don’t want any trouble. My dad can pay fo—” Trea’s words die on his lips as he recognizes me.

“Do you know who I am?” I ask rhetorically.

He swallows hard. “Dutton Taylor.”

“And I’m sure I’ve made it very clear that my baby sister is not to be touched. So either you’re new, ignorant, or stupid. Which one is it?” I say as I slice the tip of the blade down his shirt. His legs are shaking, and he’s hyperventilating.

“I’ll l-leave her alone. I’m s-sorry. I’ll n-never g-go near her again,” he stutters.

I smile, his fear music to my ears. I get my hands dirty often in my line of work, having a cousin run the mafia makes it so much easier and acceptable. I’ve never bothered to question whether I’m a good or bad person. If it makes me a profit and protects my family, that’s all I care about.

“But what about all the other women, Trea?” I ask with a smile that clearly terrifies him. “What about all the videos and photos I found on your computer? Are you sorry about them?”

“I-I—” He starts to scream wildly and painfully as I carve the first letter into his chest. I ignore all his pleading and crying. Thick trails of blood begin to run down his chest and stomach. I’ve barely finished before he passes out, which makes it far less fun.

I don’t consider myself the next Picasso, but I do appreciate my handiwork.

‘Sex Offender’ is carved into his chest. I consider cutting his dick off but know that someone in prison will do it for me.

“When do you want the photos and videos leaked?” Ford asks, looking over my shoulder curiously.

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