Page 68 of No Saint

“I don’t think you got a good taste,” I tell him, stepping over the mess to his dead friend. “Atlas, do me a favor and turn his head my way.”

Atlas silently steps up and jerks the guys face my way, forcing him to watch as I slowly insert the blade into the dead mans still bleeding throat. The sound of flesh and muscle squelching mixes with his retching and whimpers.

“The thing is,” I say nonchalantly, wiggling the blade around and coating the steel, “Us, as a human race, believe ourselves indestructible. Nothing can happen to us, but you see how soft this flesh is? You see how easy it is to cut deep and true?”

I hear him thrashing against Atlas’ hold.

I bring the knife out and turn, finding Atlas already holding the guys mouth open. I slide it in slowly, letting him taste it, feel that blood coating the soft flesh inside his mouth. Giving him a flavor of what happens to people who turn on the fucking Saint’s. We are the kings that sit on the throne, the family that rule and those against us will suffer.

Except, I don’t expect him to actually want to die. No one does. It’s inevitable and just as before where we believe ourselves indestructible, we try to skirt death, pretending the end isn’t coming for us all. That’s why I don’t anticipate him using every last bit of his strength to shove away from Atlas and to impale the back of his throat on the knife.

I’m not quick enough to remove it before the damage is done.

He gurgles and chokes, blood pouring from his mouth.

“No!Cazzo!”I yell, reaching for the straps. “Get Devon!”

Atlas bolts from the room as I yank the guy down and lay him on the floor, but I don’t know what to fucking do and I needed the fucking information! Shit.

“Merda!”Blood freely pours, drowning the guy. It runs out of his mouth, down his cheeks but his eyes, they smile like he’s won. “Stonzo!”

Devon rushes in besides Atlas, takes one look and scoffs. “He’s dead.”

“Then fucking save him! I need a fucking name!”

“He severed his windpipe, I can’t repair that.”

My rage sees me lashing out. I bring my fist down hard onto the guys face, one punch, two, turning his bloodied face into pulp. The men just stand and watch as I roar my anger before kicking the body and storming from the cellar. I don’t bother washing the blood off as I hit the gym once more. My fist flies into the bag, the blood there smearing across the leather and pain bursts across my knuckles. I’d split them on his face and the punch had opened them up more.

I let the pain and the anger consume, let it explode.

My knuckles burst open further with each blow, blood running rivulets down my hands and arms, dropping onto the wooden floor and being smeared by the soles of my shoes.

“Gabriel?”

I freeze at her voice before I turn the anger on her.

“Amelia,” I storm towards her and her face twists in fear, taking in the blood, the mess of my hand and likely my face too. She stumbles back. “Oh, still scared of me, huh?” I laugh without humor, “Shame you didn’t keep hold of it when I fucked you last night.”

Her brows turn down, “What happened?”

“You want to know, Amelia?” I stop an inch from her, breathing hard and heavy, enough to move the tendrils of hair that frame her face, “I just killed a man and made his friend drink his blood.”

She swallows, eyes widening.

“I took a knife and I stabbed him in the throat.”

“Oh my god.”

“My pretty wife doesn’t like that?” I growl, “Are you going to run again? Run away from it all just like you’re good at.”

Her nostrils flare.

“Come on, Amelia, get angry. Show me that fuckingleonessain you.”

“Fuck you, Gabriel.”

“I wouldn’t mind fucking you right now, either. Sink right into that tight cunt of yours. You wouldn’t fight me would you, you’re so fucking desperate for it. You pretend you’re fucking strong. A protective mother who would do anything for her son but you’re desperate for my attention, even if you don’t fucking believe it yourself. I see it.” I crowd her, pushing our chests together. “So, let’s fuck, Amelia, lets give you that attention you so heavily crave.”

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