Page 429 of Cheaters: A Dark Romance Anthology

We didn’t get where we are in life by just paying off those who get in our way. Our fathers may be at the helm of our family business, but we are the fists.

I’d had the four gang members gagged and restrained, each strung from the ceiling by their flesh torn arms. I’d taken great pleasure in painting targets on their faces and when one had cried and begged me, I mocked him before landing a harsh headbutt to his face, knocking him clean out. I like to be a little creative; I can no longer torture someone in the same way I have another. Each life I have taken is imprinted in my mind by their unique death, personally planned by yours truly. We’d each taken turns in beating them to a pulp, torturing them for hours, before we’d lined them up and shot a bullet between their eyes.

The Panel forgives no one.

I’ve not long come down from the adrenaline high from executing those men and yet we’re back in the bunker, because apparently London is full of stupid people.

Stupid people who think they can outrun us.

The Panel.

I snort inwardly.

We own London.

England is our kingdom, the rest of the world our playground.

There is nowhere on this planet that you can hide from us.

“Has Barclay been in contact?” I ask. Our brother has been incognito for the past few days. He’s hiding something, but owing to Libby’s waning health, he’s bottling up whatever he has been dealing with.

Seth shakes his head.

“We should visit him.” I turn to the long window on the opposite wall. “I can’t be bothered to wait for whiskey.”

I puff out a stream of smoke, eager to get on with this. Walking to the far side of the bunker along the one-way mirror, I flick a switch, illuminating the room on the other side and smirk at a blindfolded Clive Marsden whimpering from the chair he is strapped down in. The pathetic fool owes us money and thought he could outrun us instead of paying up.

Rule number one, know your opponent, whether that be in business or in your personal life. Marsden had no idea who he was dealing with—that was his first mistake.

Men like Clive are weak. He thought he could play with the big boys, only to find himself face-first in his own shit. When his deal with the Mortellis went south, he begged for help from every criminal within reach. Word of mouth finally got back to us and we stepped in, offered protection to poor Clive in exchange for a decent fee and intel on Enzo Mortelli, and when it came time for him to pay up, the bald-headed fuck skipped town.

Clive’s head jerks around rapidly, trying to gather his bearings. Seth laughs deeply when he finally sees Clive wearing nothing but a thong with a snowy white bunny tail and a pair of matching white bunny ears. I curl my lip but smirk back at Seth.

“You cruel bastard.” Seth flicks ash onto the floor, shaking his head at my torture tactics.

Grinning, I look back at Clive. He looks ridiculous. Pathetic and exactly the kind of man he really is. An embarrassment. A scared little bunny caught up in the bright headlights of his fuck up, he better be ready to pay the price for his deceit. No one betrays The Panel and gets away with it.

You’re only on our radar for two reasons: we can benefit from you, or we wish you dead.

Marsden here has had the luxury of both those reasons.

I press the button, one that has access to the audio feed.

“Good evening, Clive. How was Barbados?” Clive bends his head back as he tries to see from beneath the blindfold.

“I can get you the money. I’m sorry… please,” he begs, wriggling against his restraints.

“You had time. You chose to run, and in turn, hurt my feelings.”

“What feelings?” Seth scoffs. I tsk at him over my shoulder as I straighten my suit jacket. To the outside world, I’m a ruthless businessman, running an international investment company.

By day, I play CEO; and by night, I torture weasel-like men who dare to defy our name.

Those that dare speak of The Panel are managed by us, puppets on strings doing our bidding, government officials paid to manipulate the system on our behalf. Lawless men on the wrong side of the tracks, too eager to gain our favour and do our dirty work for a pleasant fee. It’s funny what people will do for money.

“Please, Jamieson. I can get the money, I promise,” he pleads once more.

I punch the glass, making it rattle.

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