Page 64 of Vegas Daddies

Blood coats my skin, oozing out of me at an alarming rate.

The bastard withdraws the knife, laughs this childish, high-pitched garble and moves on to somebody else.

Scrambling up, I apply compression to my arm. Fuck. The plan wasn’t to be handicapped. At least not this early on. I wince, watching as the blood continues to pump out between my fingers, coating them in fresh, ruby-red blood that lightens my head.

Is it the sight of blood that makes passing out on the floor tempting, or the fact that I’m losing so much? Gunshots echo throughout the room, a bullet hitting one of the overhead spotlights with aBAM!

Glass rains to the floor. I slide out of the way. Duck.

Lifesaver, in the middle of a duel, glimpses me from the bar. His eyes drop to my arm and widen.

He winces for me.

That’s just what I need.

A doctor reacting to a wound.

Another body pounces at me, this one masked. The barrel of their gun crashes into me, but I don’t flinch. Taking advantage of my perfectly capable other arm, I throw myself into him at a side angle, releasing my wounded limb for a moment to bury my Takeshi deep in his thigh. The high-pitched garble plays familiarly in my ear, except this time it’s more of a cry than it is a laugh. Ha! It’s the same fucking guy that knifed my arm. He lands on his knees, rips the blade from his leg, and preparesto stand up—this time he’s probably aiming for the heart, but instead he collapses, giving in to the pain.

I turn over my other shoulder to see Brander staring nervously at my arm.

“Jesus, Match.”

“Yeah, I know. I’ll get Lifey to sort it out later.”

The bleeding has slowed at least. I reapply pressure to the wound. Wince some more. Nasty pieces of work, the Bratva.

But so are we.

I look around the room. Blood splats up the walls, and shards of glass litter the floor. A piece has been wedged into the body beside me. It cuts straight into their chest, blood spreading out rapidly from the wound.

Another body catches my attention up ahead, strewn across the bar wearing a very painful-looking scald mark across their forehead. They’re not dead. Not yet at least, unless Brander gets the urge to finish him off. It looks horrific. Like they’ve stuck their head in a bucket of fire. One of their feet spasms, and their mouth, wide open like they’ve lost control to close it, releases what sounds like a death rattle.

They outnumbered us to start, but now we’ve outnumbered them.

I take a seat at one of the booths, still unsure if I’m lightheaded because of the arm, or because of the situation. A bloodbath like this hasn’t occurred for some time now. Four years ago was the last time we stormed into Bratva territory to take the lives of people who deserved it, and back then it was an entire clubouting. This feels like a miracle. How the hell did we manage to finish off a dozen Russians, just three of us?

I sag my shoulders. Stare into the room. Pools of blood collect on the floor. Occasionally, there’s heaving and groaning, but for the most part it’s radio silence. One able Russian remains, and he’s too busy trying to resuscitate his burnt ally across the bar.

Often, I wonder how my previous self would’ve reacted if, back in Buffalo, I visited a fortune teller or some shit and had my future all read out to me.“You’re Venom Vultures’ Secretary, and your full-time job is managing a bunch of criminals, and killing.”

I don’t think I would’ve believed it. Sometimes, I don’t even believe it now. One second alive. The next dead. Life and death share a very thin line, and it’s one a person can cross at any time, with zero warning too. Fate doesn’t exist. There’s no “It’s meant to be.”

Death is tragic and accidental…and also in your control if you know how to wield a weapon. The Russian I knifed in the thigh lies in the fetal position, the bloody blade beside him, abandoned. He seethes in pain, hand fumbling for a device in his pocket he can’t quite reach without irritating the wound.

At Venom Vultures, we tell ourselves that we’re heroes.

But what if we’re not?

Maybe we’re villains convincing ourselves that we’re doing good.

Like Peter.

Maybe we pride ourselves on our achievements to distract our minds from all the sins. Peter slaughtered innocents for his title,but doing good deeds and smiling at public conferences doesn’t just distract others from his sins. It distracts himself too.

You become what you think you are.

Ever since my initiation, the club has preached that we’re heroes.

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