Page 139 of Double Standards
But I’ll circle back. Trust me. I always do.
Trigger exhales hard through his nose and jerks his head toward the metal door ahead of us, the paint chipped and streaked with something dark that better not be blood.
“Is he in there?”
“Been there two days.” My voice is quiet, controlled. No need to say more. We all know what that means.
Max steps up from the shadows, calm and efficient. He doesn’t say a word as he pulls a pin from his back pocket and takes Trigger's hand. The cuff’s lock clicks open, and the steel band slips free with a heavy clang as it hits the concrete floor.
Trigger rolls his shoulder with a grunt, flexing his wrist like he’s itching for a fight. “Ready?” he asks, eyes locked on mine. He’s not looking for bravado, he’s checking for cracks, for doubt. For a reason to pull me back.
He won’t find one. I’m too far gone for that. The second they laid a hand on her, they crossed a line I can’t forgive.
I nod once, slow and certain. “Yeah,” I breathe, rolling my shoulders and cracking the tension out of my neck. My fingers curl into fists and release. “Let’s do it.”
“Who’s going first?” Hunter asks from behind us, barely glancing up from his phone. His voice is bored, but that’s just his armor. I know better. He’s keyed in, just like the rest of us.
Trigger and I exchange a look, and just like that, the years fall away. We’ve done this dance before. He knows exactly why we’re here. Knows what I’m carrying in my chest like a live wire.
“Ladies first,” he says, smirking. “She’s your girl, man.” He claps a heavy hand on my shoulder and gives it a firm squeeze before letting go.
“Yeah,” I grin, heat sparking low in my gut as I look toward the door.My girl.
And God help anyone who gets in my way.
Max pushes through first, the stench strong as we step into the room.He’s the biggest out of all of us, but ironically, the one who avoids violence.
Trigger, on the other hand, can hold his own blow for blow, which is why I wanted him here. We’re evenly matched, but he’s the one I trust to rein me in if I lose control—and there’s a good chance I will.
Daniels looks like shit. His greasy hazel hair hangs in stringy clumps over a face that’s more bruise than skin. One eye swollen nearly shut, the other bloodshot and twitching with panic. His cheeks are blotchy, his lips cracked, and from the stench, he either pissed himself hours ago or just now. Hard to tell. Sweat stains darken his collar and underarms, soaking into a shirt that used to be white. Now it’s yellowed and stiff with filth. His chest rises and falls in short, shallow bursts like a dying animal.
Max’s men did a number on him. Gave him a taste of hell and didn’t skimp on the seasoning.
Nice touch.
Daniels is slumped in a battered steel chair, the kind that cuts into your back if you sit too long. His wrists are bound tight to the arms with zip ties that bite into the flesh. There’s already dried blood around the plastic. His ankles are duct-taped to the legs, one foot twitching uncontrollably.
The floor beneath him is covered in thick plastic sheeting. Not wrinkled or messy—no, Max laid it down with surgical precision. It stretches edge to edge like a painter preparing a canvas. Only this isn’t art. This is a warning. A silent scream of what’s coming.
I step forward, slow and deliberate, each footstep echoing off the concrete walls like a war drum.
“Mr. Daniels,” I sneer, his name coiling on my tongue like something rotten. “So nice to see you again.”
He jerks his head up. There’s defiance in his expression, sure, but it’s hollow. Weak bravado trying to cover the quake in his knees and the river of sweat glistening down his temple.
“You don’t scare me, Bonanno,” he says, voice cracking in places it shouldn’t. The tremble in his leg betrays him. His fingers curl around the armrests, knuckles bone-white.
I laugh softly, tilting my head like I’m trying to solve a puzzle. “What gave you the impression I was trying to scare you?” My tone is calm, almost polite. “To be honest, your emotions have no interest in my gain. Not really anyway.”
His brows pull together in confusion. “What?” he blinks, as if I just rewired the whole conversation in front of him.
“My ultimate goal is payback, but death would be too kind for you.” I don’t break eye contact as I reach for the table beside me, fingers brushing against cold steel. I pluck a slim knife from the lineup of tools. “And you should know, I am not a kind man.”
The blade glints under the flickering overhead light, catching the silver edge like a promise. It’s a hunting knife—sleek, curved, made for tearing flesh from bone. It’s not for show. I’ve used it before, and I’ll use it again.
Behind me, Hunter leans against the far wall, twirling a machete in one hand like it’s a damn baton. He’s smiling, but there’s no joy in it—just teeth and shadows. Max stands with his arms folded, silent, watching. His presence alone is enough to make grown men piss themselves.
Normally, I keep my hands clean. Delegate the work. But not this time.
