Page 18 of The Beautiful Dead

He recovered quickly, anger twisting his features. “You son of a?—”

His weight shifted. He favored his right side. Predictable. I dodged his punch with ease, stepping into his space and grabbing him by the head. My knee drove into his ribs with brutal precision.

Crunch.

A wheezing gasp tore from his throat as he staggered back, clutching his side. He collapsed against the wall, struggling for breath. But he wasn’t done yet—there was still fight left in him.

I tilted my head, watching with cold detachment. Too much emotion. Too much hesitation. Weak.

“That all you got?” he spat, wiping blood from his mouth. “No wonder your family’s losing ground.”

I sighed, already bored. “You talk too much.”

In one moment, I was across the alley, in his face. My forearm braced against his neck, pinning him in place. He barely had time to react before my right fist snapped forward—a vicious hook to the jaw.

His head whipped sideways. His body followed. The Gallo crumpled to the ground, dazed but still breathing. That was the problem with guys like this. They didn’t know when to stay down.

With a sudden burst of energy, he pushed up and lashed out, boot aimed at my ribs. I caught the kick on my forearm, but the force knocked me back just enough for him to yank a gun from his waistband.

His confidence soared, bloodied lips curling into a grin.

Stupid. He had no idea who he was dealing with. Before he could pull the trigger, I moved. Steel whispered as I flicked open the switchblade from the sheath at the base of my spine.

A flash of silver in a blur of movement. The blade kissed his throat. Not deep enough to kill. But enough to make him feelit. Blood welled around the cold steel. His breath hitched, his pupils blown wide.

I drank in every second of his terror. “Too slow.”

His entire body trembled, pulse hammering against the blade’s edge. I could feel it—the exact moment he realized he was outmatched.

I savored it. Consumed it.

Predictably, like a trapped rat, he panicked. His elbow slammed into my ribs, throwing his weight into the strike. The slick handle of my blade slipped from my fingers, clattering across the alley.

I had exactly one second to react before he lunged. We hit the ground hard, fists flying. His knuckles cracked against my cheekbone. A solid hit.

I grinned.

His eyes widened.

Wrong move.

He swung again. This time, I caught his fist midair and wrenched it backward. His shoulder popped, the socket giving way with a sickening snap. He screamed, but that didn’t stop him.

Through sheer adrenaline, he slammed his forehead into mine, rattling my skull. My grip loosened just enough for him to scramble free, shoving me off with a desperate kick to my ribs.

I barely felt it.

The second my back hit the concrete, I rolled, dodging the wild punch he aimed at my face. He overextended, momentum carrying him forward. I capitalized on the mistake, twisting his arm behind his back and slamming him face-first into the ground.

Hard.

Blood smeared against the wet concrete as he groaned. I didn’t give him a second to recover. Gripping his collar, I hauledhim up and drove my knee into his stomach—once, twice, a third time—until he coughed up blood.

Still, he struggled. Still, he fought. I admired that. For a moment.

Then I slammed him against the wall, pinning him by the throat. His hands clawed at my wrist, but his strength was failing. The gun was gone. His weakened body trembled from the beating.

All that remained was the inevitable.

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