Page 16 of Bad Blood
Shepisses me off.
A manifestation of my own guilt.
My mind devours the word as I press my thumb against the access pad and a faint click grants me entry. Shoving the door open, I step inside my sanctuary of sin.
Fuck it.
Drowning in a sea of guilt is a waste of time and mistakes are nothing but stagnant water: they’ll never flow differently. Revenge, on the other hand, is a rushing rapid that, without warning, plummets off the side of a cliff.
It’s revenge that fuels my appetite for power and my thirst for blood.
It’s in the air tonight. I can smell its coppery scent.
It’s time a certain traitor choked on it.
There’s a trace of a smile on my lips as I close the door behind me. “Rough day, Ashford?”
An understatement. Getting hit by an eighteen-wheeler would’ve beenrough. Ten hours of being tied to a chair and slowly mutilated is a fate worse than death.
Unfortunately for him, that was just the prelude.
My former casino floor manager lifts his chin, and I take a moment to appreciate RJ’s artwork. The man has skill. Angry, purple bruises paint the canvas of Ashford’s alabaster skin like a damn Picasso.
“Santi, please…” he begs, blood streaming from both corners of his mouth. “I’ll get you your money. I swear…”
I don’t dignify that with an answer.
Removing my jacket, I drape it over a nearby table and roll up my sleeves as he grovels for his life.
Then I drive my fist into what’s left of his nose.
Ashford’s head snaps back with a satisfying crack, a fresh river of blood coating his face. “Cleaver,” I order, opening my stained hand.
The command needs few words. One is enough for RJ to place a meat cleaver in my waiting palm. As my second, it’s his job to anticipate and act. Of course, the fact that he’s also my cousin adds a layer of depth rarely found in our line of work.
Depth, not trust.
I depend on a few. Itrustno one.
Glancing down, I loosen my grip around the cleaver’s worn handle and give it a light spin. Simple, but effective. I usually prefer more sophisticated toys, but I’m late for a meeting. Tried and true will have to suffice.
I hold it up just to watch Ashford’s swollen eyes well up with tears, and a wet stain appears at his crotch as he pisses himself. “You’re making a fucking mess in my casino, Ashford.”
“P-please…” he gurgles.
“My father always believed in the punishment fitting the crime.” Folding my arms across my chest, I tap the flat end of the cleaver against my chin. “You stole from me, so maybe I should make sure that never happens again.” Without taking my eyes off him, I nod my head. Before I can blink, RJ has a folding table placed between Ashford and me.
“N-no. No, please!”
RJ disappears behind him with a switchblade, slicing through the zip tie binding Ashford’s hands within seconds. Wrapping his fingers around the man’s wrist, he slams his palm onto the table and firmly holds it in place.
Ashford is so fucking dazed he doesn’t bother using his free arm to fight back. Thecabrónjust leaves it hanging by his side like an overcooked noodle.
Who am I to refuse an open invitation.
Without hesitation or remorse, I slam the cleaver down, unbothered as his pinkie and ring finger scatter across the tarp. I stare down at the severed digits, kicking the one imprisoned by a gold band out of my sight.
There. I did us both a favor.
