Page 1 of Lords of Ruin: Savage

1

CAST

Three YearsLater

“Speak up, Pendejo.” I whisper in the ear of the sobbing man in front of me. His face is a grotesque masterpiece—swollen, bloodied, and broken beneath my hands. One eye is sealed shut, bruises blooming in sickly hues of purple, yellow, and green. Blood trickles from his split brow, weaving down to the gash on his cheek like the final, perfect stroke of my work. His lips, cracked and swollen, threaten to tear with just a little more pressure—a tempting thought.

His nose, crooked and broken, serves as the centerline to the chaos, dried blood crusting around his nostrils. Sweat beads on his battered skin, mixing with dirt and crimson in a grim contrast—each rattling breath is unsteady, a dying animal’s gasp.

I tilt my head slightly, a faint, almost amused smile curling my lips. It’s... art. Beautiful in its rawness. My fingers twitch with the desire to add another stroke, to deepen the masterpiece, but for now, I let the moment hang, and settle on tapping my knife against this fucker’s skull.

“Come on,” I laugh, my eyes wide and curious. “Don’t make me take another finger, Gus.”

He spits in my face; blood and saliva slide down my cheek. “Fuck you, you sick rat.”

The spit doesn’t bother me; if I knew this was my last moments alive I would spit in a motherfuckers face too, but it’s the wordrat.Some of the racist Italians refer to the Mexicans here as rats, because they are brown, furry, reproduce in litters, and other racist reasons. I’m not saying I wouldn’t love to kill the bastard, but I am going to make this so fucking slow. I smile, wiping the spit off my cheek and then slapping him so hard across his face, he coughs out a tooth.Nice, but we can do better, can’t we?

Swiftly I throw my machete down and take his hand.

The man’s screams rip through the air, raw and guttural, a symphony of pure agony that reverberates off the walls. His body convulses, trembling uncontrollably, and tears streak his battered face, mixing with the blood and sweat already staining his skin. He tries to suck in a breath, but it comes out a choking sob, his voice breaking under the weight of the pain.

The sound is exquisite. Like music, raw and unrefined, every note striking something deep within me. It fills the silence, drowning out the dull hum of my own thoughts, and for a moment, I let myself savor it. There’s a rhythm to his agony, a cadence to his cries that I find... intoxicating. Each scream, each gasp, is a testament to my work—a masterpiece painted in blood and suffering.

I stand over him, my fists clenched, my patience thinning but my pleasure undeniable. "Now tell me, you racist shit," I snarl,my voice cutting through his cries like a blade. "Who’s the mole stealing my supplies and killing my people?"

But he doesn’t answer. He can’t. His screams drown out anything he might say, his body consumed by the sheer torment coursing through him. The sound grates against my ears, but more than that, it ignites primal feeling within me. I shouldn’t be enjoying this. But I am.

Control yourself, Cast,I think, a flicker of irritation sparking in my mind.Don’t let it slip too far. Not yet.But the line between my fury and my restraint is razor-thin, and this bastard’s silence pushes me closer to its edge.

With a growl of frustration—and delight—I rear back and slam my boot into his already shattered kneecap. The sound is sickening—bone crunching, cartilage snapping—and his scream spikes to a pitch that makes even my own stomach churn.Beautiful.

“Still nothing?” I hiss, leaning over him. His head lolls to the side, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps, but he’s still not talking. Coward.

Swiftly, I heave my favored machete , the blade embedding itself into the ground with a metallic thunk. Without hesitation, I grab his trembling hand, forcing it palm-up. “Let’s see how much more you can take,” I say, my voice low, almost a purr. My grip tightens, his fingers twitching under the pressure. "You don’t want to talk? Fine. Let’s make it a little harder for you not to scream."

And God, I hope he does.

Gus gives me the name Nicholas, spitting it out between sobs and screams like a confession at the gates of hell. That’s all I needed. I let him live—if you can call it that. One hand, two shattered knees. Even bargain. Mercy, by my standards.

I step out of the warehouse, a cigarette dangling from my lips, the smoke curling lazily into the night air. Blood drips from my clothing in steady, crimson trails, staining the ground as I walk. My boots crunch against the gravel, the only sound besides the faint whimpers from inside.

I’ve run the Cartel ruthlessly since my father’s death three years ago. It wasn’t a seamless transition. People doubted me, whispered that I was too young, too reckless, too consumed by my own demons to lead. But I silenced those whispers with bullets and blades, leaving a trail of bodies as proof of my resolve. They don’t question me anymore. Not my men, not my enemies.

They call meLa Parca.The Grim Reaper. The name fits, doesn’t it? I like the way it rolls off their tongues, dripping with fear and awe, like I’m some myth come to life. Death itself, walking among them. It’s not far from the truth. Fear keeps people loyal. It keeps them in line. And it keeps me alive.

I glance at my men as I step past them, their gazes avoiding mine out of respect—or fear. Either works.

“Clean it up, and drop him off at the Don’s home,” I say, my voice flat but carrying authority. They nod silently, already moving to handle what’s left of Gus.

The night air feels colder as I slide into the waiting car. The leather of the seat is cool against my back, and for a brief moment, I let myself sink into it.

I take a slow drag, the cigarette tip glowing faintly in the dark as I exhale a stream of smoke into the air. It’s a brief reprieve, until the sound of the passenger door opening destroys any semblance of peace.

Valeria, my assistant, slides in, her perfume is a light floral that cuts through the lingering scent of blood and smoke. She’s impeccably dressed as always: a fitted, short pencil skirt that hugs her figure and a silk blouse with just enough sheen to catch the dim light of the car. Her brunette hair is pinned back in a sleek bun, and her crimson lips curve into a polite, practiced smile.

“Señor Castillo,” she greets, her tone smooth and professional, though her eyes linger on me a second too long. “Your itinerary for tomorrow.” She holds up the tablet, her manicured nails tapping lightly against the screen as she scrolls.

I grunt, not in the mood for pleasantries. “Go on.”

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