CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Agony.
Fire.
Unquenchable thirst.
Is this what his angel had felt when he’d locked her in this very same trunk? Slowly creeping death as his lungs burned up from heat and lack of oxygen. Maybe he deserved this horrific end. He had no idea this is what he’d condemned her to. He thought he was keeping her quiet.
He’d lost count of how many times they’d pulled him from the slow baking death. The beatings in between. Violent, bloody, crushing. They made sure to break his bones, hurt him as much as they could without actually killing him. He laughed through the pain. He was fucking psychotic Shank. He could withstand anything and survive. He’d taken a bullet to the guts from the love of his life and survived. He would smile in the face of this slow burning death from her satanic lover.
The lid of his own trunk lifted and the demonic visage of Soloman Hart looked down at him for what he immediately recognized was the last time. It wasn’t a look of rage or even one of satisfaction on the mafia king’s face that finally forced a quake of fear to slither through Shank’s bloodied and battered body. It was the flat, dead look of acceptance for what must be. He slammed the lid shut and walked away, leaving the gangbanger to dream of his angel until death do they part.