Page 1 of Redeem
CHAPTER1
MADDEN
Death makes peoplestrange.
I’ve never seen the point of funerals. The person is gone...dead. My favorite way for them to be. I don’t need to dress up in a suit to say goodbye to a corpse.
But they’re all there, and I’m here.
Someone has to take care of unfinished business, and when I can bring my knife out to play, I know it’s gonna be a twisted kind of pleasure.
My gaze falls to the man tied to the unforgiving, cold metal chair. Looking up at me, his eyes widen in terror as I twirl my knife in my hand. Its gleaming blade catches in the dim light of the warehouse as he attempts to utter words, but they’re muffled by the gag that stifles his voice. His futile pleas hold no significance to me. I came here to play, and he is my toy.
I hate that I can't play my usual way, but this warehouse is located in an area outside my typical stomping grounds. So, I will have to enjoy this scream free. Still, I will enjoy the warm crimson that they all eventually bleed.
A voice interrupts my thoughts.
“Do you think the stories are true?” one of the Santoro soldiers asks the other. They’re here, as this is their job, one that I was asked to assist with. I think it’s Emilio’s way of giving me something to do while they don suits. Knowing I will be left to my own devices.
“Hey,” the older of the two—John—yells over to me as he pushes off from the steel wall of the warehouse. “They call you Madman,” he sneers, his words dripping with disdain, “yet you haven't shown anything to earn that. Look at you, kid, you’re nothing but—”
I cut off his condescending bullshit when my knife finds its mark in his thigh. He gasps, dropping to his knees. As pain contorts his features, something finally snaps in me, and I feel it stirring for more. Pain is the only way I feel alive.
“Fuck, you’re a psycho,” he spits through gritted teeth. I smile—well, what I would consider a smile. His eyes dart to his friend for help. I tilt my head, curious how this will play out. Will his friend help or merely watch, like I am?
He takes a few tentative steps toward his wounded friend, watching me with every step he takes. I growl lowly, a warning that rumbles deep within my chest. Unless he wants to see the end of my other knife, he better stay away. I stand there and observe the sight, my beautiful blade embedded in the soldier's thigh as he wrestles with the pain. His trembling hands hover around the wound, uncertain whether to remove the knife or not.
I deny him the luxury of choice. With a swift motion, I retract the blade. He stifles a scream as he clutches his thigh, his body crumpling to the side. Weak...are all the Santoro men this pathetic? Emilio isn't one of them anymore. Maybe they need him, to show them how to be men.
Fuck. I tilt my head to watch his hands turning red as the blood flows through his fingers. It’s a beautiful sight. But I’m not allowed to kill this man. If I do, I’ll be forced to take the other out as well and then explain what happened here. Emilio might not care, but I have a feeling his father will. That would only cause problems for our future plans.
“Go.'' I gesture to the soldier, my voice laced with a cold indifference. “You need a doctor.” I wave for the other guy to come over. His steps falter. No wonder they asked me to do this job; none of them can do it themselves. I pull my eyes from his thigh and turn away. I’m here to get information from a rival for the Santoros, not put my knives in them.
“Youarea madman.” I turn back to see the other soldier helping his comrade up. John points at me as he rests his weight against the other guy, unable to bear weight on his injured leg. “Fucking crazy, you’ll be done for this,” he spits out at me.
Turning, I clench my fist around the hilt of my knife. I can feel the sharp edge of it slicing my palm, and I shiver at the warm blood running down my wrist.
I’mnotto kill this man.
I narrow my eyes at the man strapped in the chair, his eyes observing the movement behind me, and I hear him grunt something. Ah, fuck it. I spin, throwing my blade and watch it slice through the soldier’s flesh like it's nothing but air.
I watch as the asshole—John—gasps for the very same air as he drowns in his own blood.
“Fuck.Oh fuck,” the other one screams as he drops his friend.
I look at him, pointing the tip of my other knife in his direction. I flip it in my hand and tilt my head, assessing him. He doesn't reach for his weapon—a gun. Weapon of choice for the Santoro men.
“It was an accident.” I don't ask—I tell him—pointing my blade at his dead friend, waiting for his answer.
His eye dart between me and the door to the factory. “It was, he...he got in the way, and your knife missed the target.”
My knives never slip. Everyone knows this. I narrow my eyes at him. He’s visibly shaking. I’ll probably regret not killing him, but this one is young, and these families only recruit in their own circle. He’s probably the son of someone important.
Ah, fuck it.
I see the terror in his eyes before he turns to flee. My blade lodges itself into his back, and he stumbles, falling to the floor. He gasps. I’ve hit a lung. He won't die...quickly. He has time.
I make my way to him, watching as he struggles to get up, crawling along the dirty warehouse floor. I plant my foot on his back and push him down. He stops struggling and glances up at me, his eyes full of terror.
