Page 3 of Cain
“Please, Cain,” he wails, tears streaming uncontrollably down his cheeks.
I take one more inhale and let the smoke spread deeper into my lungs, allowing it to numb me for a few seconds. The peace that little buddy can provide is indescribable.
Being the boss of the largest and the most prosperous sailing company in the US comes with a heavy burden. The burden of actually having to be in control. The leader. You have to earn people’s respect. And when they don’t respect you, they have to fear you. To tremble at the sound of your name.
But being who I am comes with a greater burden. My name marks me as someone sinister. Bad. Dark. The truth is … people have no idea what is going on in my head.
In just one second, I can change my mind and …
…
… Pull the trigger. End things sooner. I can forget who I’m supposed to be and embrace who I’ve become. Show no mercy.
All it takes is a split second—one small decision.
He chose to betray me.
Now, I choose to end him. No humanity, no remorse, no second thoughts.
His head dangles forward as blood drips from the brand-new hole in his forehead. Giving him a quick death is the most merciful thing I’ve done in quite some time. It feels good, I can’t lie. Liberating. Almost like a blessing.
“Clean this mess,” I command, and I toss the gun to the ground, creating a cloud of dirt around it.
“Yes, boss,” Landon hisses, nodding to the rest of my men to get to work.
I glance at his lifeless body, and beneath all the blood and dirt, I notice something shining at the end of his sleeves. I stroll closer and kneel to have a closer look.
His cufflinks … I swear I’ve seen these before. They’re … no, it’s not possible.
Slowly, I wipe the blood off them with my thumb and reveal two letters engraved on them.
W. F.
Wade Ford.
This fucking bastard. I’m sure he was wearing them the day he blew to pieces. He always did. They’re not random cufflinks. They’re platinum. Custom-made. Gift from his bastard son. Oh, he never shut the hell up about it. He always wore them, every goddamn day, like they were fused to his skin.
Wade is dead.
I saw it with my own goddamn eyes.
So how the fuck does this piece of shit have his cufflinks? And after all these years?
Fuck.
I drop his arm. My heart’s slamming against my ribs, and my ears are buzzing. This is wrong. This is so fucking wrong.
I feel my jaw lock up. I grab the corpse by the collar and yank him up so hard his head lolls like a rag doll. “Where the fuck did you get these?” I spit. My men stand next to me, frozen, scared to make a sound.
I drop his body to the ground.
This isn’t just some coincidence. No random scumbag ends up with those cufflinks. No way.
Unless someone wants me to see them.
Unless someone wants me to remember.
I stand up and brush my hair back with my fingers, trying to stay composed.
