Page 99 of The Beautiful Dead

But Domino wasn’t finished. Not yet. The drive to Hollow Pines was silent aside from Brock’s muffled groans.

Domino didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to. His rage crackled in the air—controlled, lethal, sharpened to a blade’s edge.

My shitty excuse for a cousin had thought no one would miss the ten grand he skimmed off his sales this past month. He was wrong. So very wrong, and he was about to pay the ultimate price. His life.

Soon, Brielle would be getting a gift, too. An appetizer before she came home to the main course. Ghost was tracking her movements. The courier was standing by, and if everything went smoothly, we’d be able to watch her reaction live streamed to my phone.

I couldn’t wait.

By the time we reached the care home, Brock was barely able to stand as Domino yanked him from the trunk; his knees buckled as he hit the ground.

“Where… where are we?” he slurred.

His face was swollen, blood drying in streaks down his neck. Domino didn’t answer. He simply hauled Brock to his feet like he was dragging out the trash.

Together, we dragged his ass across the manicured lawns, past Hollow Pines, to the home he shared with his mother.

I bypassed the security system in seconds. Once we were inside, we kicked him down the basement stairs. He landed with a crack, a heap at the bottom.

Brock barely had the strength to struggle when we strapped him into the chair. The dim light overhead cast deep, grotesqueshadows over his ruined face. He coughed weakly, blood splattering onto the concrete.

Domino didn’t care. His ruthless brutality bled through him. He only had eyes for me as his hands moved with expert precision. The first scream echoed through the room as the blade sliced through bone.

A single finger hit the floor with a dull thud.

Brock howled. His body jerked violently against the restraints, eyes wide, blood spilling down his wrist in thick, scarlet rivers.

Domino took his time with the second one. Then the third. By the fourth, Brock could barely make a sound. His body shook violently, pale and clammy from blood loss, sweat slicking his skin. Tears streaked down his battered face.

Domino studied the severed fingers, head tilted, almost curious. He dropped them into the small, elegant wooden box beside him and closed the lid with a quiet snap.

“That’s for your mother,” Domino murmured, wiping his knife clean with an eerie elegance.

Brock whimpered, snot and tears covering his face. Domino turned to me, handing over the box. I quickly ran upstairs just as the courier arrived.

A delivery for Brielle. She was currently having lunch with the mayor. The stir this would cause would be all over the papers tomorrow; she would be excommunicated by her ‘friends’, outcast from society.

Ghost had the cameras set up so we’d get to watch her reaction as she received our gift while her son took his last breaths.

By the time I rejoined Domino, he had smelling salts under Brock’s nose. Waiting for him to wake up, dragging him back because he wasn’t done yet.

Brock gasped awake, his wide eyes ping-ponging around the room. I watched the exact second he realized that he was tied up in his own basement.

A smile tugged at my lips. Domino pushed his sleeves up, slow and methodical. He paced behind Brock, rolling his bloodied knife between his fingers.

Calm. Detached. Back in control. “You fucked up, Brock,” he murmured. Voice like silk—sharp as glass.

Brock’s breath shuddered. His body trembled. “I—Dom,please, man, I—I didn’t mean to?—”

The knife plunged into his thigh, just missing the femoral artery. Brock’s scream was a siren’s song. Domino leaned in, twisting the blade until bone scraped against steel.

“That’s Mr. DeMarco to you,” he said softly.

Brock sobbed. Sniveled. Begged. “S-sorry. I-I’m so sorry Mr. DeMarco…”

I pulled my camera from my bag. Framed the shot and captured the moment. The lighting was shit, but it would be clear enough to haunt Brielle before we came for her.

Domino let Brock bleed. Let the fear set in. Let him feel it—the inevitability of what was coming. I didn’t look away. Couldn’t. Watching Domino work was like watching poetry in motion.

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