Page 60 of Tortured Hearts
The more he jerks and twists, the tighter Anton’s grip becomes. I wait it out, watching with anticipation I haven’t felt since turning that Irishman’s house into a beachside bonfire.
Eventually, his burst of fear-infused adrenaline drains. “That woman is going to be your downfall, Gianni,” he slurs, hanging his head in defeat.
“I told you not to touch her that day at the docks. You should’ve kept your hands to yourself. Now they’re mine.” Drawing my arm back, I swing the cleaver, smiling as the blade slices through flesh and bone. Henry lets out a tortured scream that rattles my eardrums. It lasts only a few seconds. Once his hand lands by his feet, he’s too busy retching to make any other noise.
But I’m just getting started. As my head fills with thoughtsof Becca lying in that parking garage, the man in me disappears, leaving the Devil and demons to battle for his soul.
“This is for touching her the first fucking time.”
Swing… His arm severs.
“This is for delivering her to my fucking father.
Swing… His chest opens.
“This is for marking her fucking skin.”
Swing… His guts spill.
“This is for touching what’s fucking mine.”
Swing… His skull splits.
“That’s enough,” I hear behind me. “He’s gone.”
I look down at my hands and forearms. There’s no skin anymore—only dark, dripping red.
Red for her.
Red for me.
Red for us.
I step back, the cleaver hitting the concrete with a heavy clang. “Get this piece of shit out of my sight.” Turning, I climb the stairs one bloody footprint at a time.
There’s another marshal waiting upstairs. One final test he must pass. If he doesn’t, Anton will remove two bodies from this place.
When I open the door, Owen is sitting hunched forward on a metal chair with his forearms resting on his thighs, and a soiled cloth in his hands. I don’t have to ask to know what’s inside his head. I recognize freshly formed demons when I see them. I wish I could tell him the roaring gets easier, but it’d be a lie. With time, he’ll learn to cage them … until men like Henry Saddler bend their bars and set them free. At that point, all he can do is wait out the carnage.
He doesn’t look up when I close the door behind me. Just to be sadistic, I turn the lock and watch his face as the telltale click pings around the tiny room.
Nothing.
He still stares at that bloody cloth like it’s going to bite him.
I walk to the small basin sink and turn the faucet on with my elbow. Orange-tinged water flows out with a rattled groan, courtesy of rusted pipes and neglected maintenance. I don’t care. It could be magical spring water shooting out of a leprechaun’s ass so long as it sends what’s left of Saddler down the drain where he belongs.
After splashing a few handfuls of water on my face, I grab a hand towel and dry off while unbuttoning my stained shirt. Owen was initiated in blood tonight, but I bathed in it.
All in the name of oath and debt.
And the deadliest four-letter word of all.
Fuck, I can’t think about that right now. I need a drink. Dropping to my haunches, I open a hidden drawer next to the sink and pull out two clean black T-shirts, a plastic lawn bag, and a bottle of bourbon. With practiced precision, I hold the bottle and bag in one hand while peeling off my soiled shirt with the other.
“Lesson one,” I say, shoving my shirt in the bag before tossing it at his feet. “Never leave evidence behind.” Instead of elaborating, I pull one of the clean T-shirts over my head, then use my teeth to unscrew the cap off the bottle and chug.
Owen’s gaze lifts, finally breaking that catatonic stare. “You plan on sharing that?”
