Page 56 of Tortured Hearts
He spits blood at my feet. “You’re a fool if you think Marcello is going to let you live.”
I tap the flat end of the cleaver against his temple. “And you’re a bigger one if you think my fatherreallyplans to end his own bloodline,” I taunt, enjoying his rapid blinks and bobbing Adam’s apple. “You think he isn’t feeding you a load of half-truths and empty promises?”
“I’ve proven my loyalty,” he repeats, but his confidence has deflated. “I’m protected.”
“You should ask yourself something, Saddler…” I swing the cleaver toward Anton.“This is my father’s underboss. Do you think he’d be here if it weren’t under his boss’sdirective?”
Once the words seep below the surface, his head flops toward a smirking Anton.
God, I love power.
“Then why do I see doubt in your eyes?” he retaliates, cutting me a sharp side-eye. “Oh, that’s right, because the last man you trusted is dead. Such a shame about Owen. Fortunately, I don’t make such careless mistakes.” I let him piss out all that delusional pride as my phone buzzes in my pocket. “It’s too bad I was in such a hurry. I would’ve enjoyed telling him how fucking stupid he was before killing him.”
When my phone buzzes again, I decide I’ve heard enough. Stepping over the puddle of blood at my feet, I give his cheek a hearty slap. “Then today is your lucky day.”
He clenches his teeth and gives me a searing glare. “What?”
“You wanted to tell your partner how ‘fucking stupid he was’, right? Well, I’m nothing, if not accommodating.”I nod to Anton, who walks dutifully toward the back door. The moment he opens it all the air expels from Henry’s lungs.
I’ll give the man credit. His timing is impeccable.
Owen Holmes still has that same dirty blond hair, but instead of every strand being in place, it’s chaotic as hell, twisting so many opposite ways it may have more personalities than I do. His usual, clean-shaven face looks like he woke up a half-hour ago in a back alley after a three-day bender.
I always joked that Owen was so bland he could’ve come straight off the justice assembly line. That guy is long gone. In his place stands a man wronged by the system he believed in with every strait-laced bone in his body. There’s a hardness in his eyes that wasn’t there before.
He stares at me before cutting his gaze toward Anton.
Then the real show begins.
A cold expression crosses his face seconds before he explodes across the room in a blaze of fury. “You two-faced piece of shit.” He’s at least a foot away when he draws his fist back, a move giving him impressive momentum when he drives it into Henry’s mouth. He doesn’t get the chance to garble out a response before Owen lands two more punches, sending a couple of teeth skidding across the floor.
I’m enjoying the show so much I let him get in one more jab to the nose before motioning for Anton to break it up. A decision “new Owen” doesn’t appreciate.
“Get your hands off me!” he roars, twisting violently as Anton pins his arms behind his back and drags him away. Once immobile, he shoots me a lethal glare. “What the hell is this?”
I shrug. “Figured you two had some unfinished business.”
“You’re supposed to be dead,” Henry groans, slumping against the wall. “I shot you.”
Rage vibrates off Owen as he breaks free from Anton’s hold and rips open his gray button-down shirt to reveal a bulletproof vest. “Always go for the head, asshole.”
I saunter forward, shaking my head. “Henry, you pulled the trigger on a fellow marshal and didn’t stick around to ensure he’d sprung a leak?” I cast a sideways glance at Owen. “I wasn’t even there, and I have second-hand embarrassment.”
“He’s a wannabe gangster, not a cautious one,” Owen mutters.
Henry flashes a toothless, bloody sneer. “At least this ‘wannabe’ chose the winning team.”
I toss the cleaver to Anton and let my fist respond by shoving his spleen halfway up his throat. “Read the room, Saddler. He’s not the one hanging like a side of beef.” As he spins and sputters, I retrieve an ice pick from a side table and hand it to Owen. “Your show, Marshal.”
He stares at it, unmoving. I’m not surprised. While anger drives a man to cross a lot of lines, mutilation and murder are two most won’t cross. They changea man forever.
However, in my world, they test trust and show loyalty, andthat’swhy there was a “change of plans.” This isn’t about letting Owen release pent-up anger at the man who tried to kill him. It’s a test of his true allegiance. He’s a jaded U.S. Marshal who desperately wants to believe in a system that failed him at every turn.
What he does in the next fifteen seconds will decide his fate.
“The bastard shot you and left you for dead,” I say, feeding his rage. “He lied to your face every day for four months. Are you going to stand here and uphold laws that betrayed you, or are you going to write your own?”
The two sides of Owen Holmes separate and snap as he drives the ice pick into his ex-partner with more brutality than men born into this life. I watch with pride as Henry screams and begs for mercy. It’s only when Owen draws his fist back and aims for his temple that I lift my hand. A beat later, Anton ripsthe ice pick from his hand.
