Page 28 of Doomed
“Definitely throat,” I decide, stepping back to avoid the inevitable mess. “More dramatic that way. Just try not to hit an artery and spray the whole fucking room.”
Mikey’s sobbing intensifies, his body shaking so hard the chair rocks against the concrete. “Please, I have family?—”
“Should’ve thought about them before stealing from ours,” I cut him off. “Wrap it up, Vane. I’m thirsty.”
“You got it, little brother.” Vane positions himself behind Mikey, gripping his hair to yank his head back, exposing his throat.
In one swift, practiced motion, Vane drags the blade across Mikey’s neck, opening a deep, crimson smile. Blood sprays forward in an arc, splattering across the floor and up the far wall.
“Jesus fucking Christ!” I jump back, but not before catching spatter across my boots. “I just said don’t hit an artery, you fucking idiot.”
Vane laughs, wiping his blade on Mikey’s shirt as the man gurgles his final breaths. “What’s the problem? Too messy for your delicate sensibilities?”
“This isn’t easy to clean up, asshole.” I gesture at the blood pooling rapidly beneath the chair, spreading in a widening circle across the concrete.
Vane shrugs, completely unbothered by the carnage. “Who the fuck cares? That’s what Jenson and the boys are for.” He pulls out his phone, types a quick message. “Done. Cleanup crew’s on the way.”
I grab a rag from the corner of the room and crouch down to wipe the blood from my boots, scrubbing at the leather with more care than I showed Mikey. These are Italian leather, for fuck’s sake.
“You’re such a princess about your shoes,” Vane laughs, flicking his knife closed and sliding it back into its ankle sheath.
“Some of us have standards.” I spit on a stubborn spot, scrubbing it with the rag until the leather shines again. “Not everyone wants to look like they just stumbled out of a slaughterhouse.”
Blood’s still pooling around Mikey’s feet, spreading across the concrete floor like spilled wine as it makes its way to the drain several inches from where he sits. The smell of death permeates the air, metallic and thick. It should bother me—the death, the violence, the fact that I just helped kill a man without hesitation—but it doesn’t. This is just business.
I toss the bloody rag aside and grab my bat, running my fingers over the fresh dents and smears. The Louisville Slugger’s seen better days, but it’s still got plenty of conversations left in it. I carry it to the wall and lean it carefully against the cinder blocks. Jenson will clean it up with everything else.
“You good?” Vane asks, watching me with that knowing look. He can always tell when I need to blow off steam.
“Better now.” I roll my shoulders, feeling the tension release. “Nothing like a little violence to clear the head.”
We stride out of the warehouse side by side, leaving Mikey’s cooling body behind without a backward glance. The night air hits my face, washing away the stench of blood. Piss and fear. I inhale deeply, feeling more centered than I have all day.
Our motorcycles wait in the shadows, sleek predators ready to pounce. I swing my leg over my Aprilia, the engine roaring to life beneath me. The vibration travels up my spine, another kind of release.
I needed this—needed to feel powerful again after chasing Bianca for weeks with nothing to show for it. Violence is my element, my natural state. Not this pussy-footing around trying to charm an unwilling woman.
9
KNOX
Iweave through the crowd at Elliot’s gallery, champagne flute in hand. The place is packed—art critics, wealthy collectors, and the usual social climbers all jostling for position. I’m not here for any of them.
I spot her across the room—Bianca Hayes, wearing a simple black dress that somehow makes her stand out more than any of the overdressed socialites. It’s been three weeks since our kiss. She’s talking animatedly to an older couple, her hands gesturing at her work. Even from here, I can see the passion lighting up her face.
I take my time, circling the gallery, studying her paintings. They’re... fuck, they’re incredible. Not just technically skilled—though they are—but there’s a purity about them that punches me right in the gut. One in particular stops me cold—a woman standing at the edge of a cliff, half in shadow, half in blinding light. The conflict in the piece is palpable, like you can feel her deciding whether to jump or step back.
When I finally make my way to Bianca, she’s alone for the first time all evening. Her shoulders tense when she spots me.
“Don’t worry, Hayes. I’m not here to cause trouble,” I say, lifting my champagne in mock surrender. “Though I didconsider bringing a red marker to leave my number on all your pieces.”
She rolls her eyes, despite the ghost of a smile there.
“Your work is fucking amazing,” I tell her, dropping the smirk. “Seriously. That piece with the woman on the cliff edge? It’s... it makes you feel something.”
Surprise flickers across her face at my sincerity.
“Thank you,” she says cautiously, like she’s waiting for the punchline.
