Page 67 of No Saint

“Why are you hiding from me?”

“I’m not!” She snaps.

She locks herself away from me. I don’t push.

I work the tension off in the gym until Atlas informs me, they caught two men sneaking through the marina this morning, wearing the signature black outfits and masks of the men who have been attacking my city these past few weeks.

The casino incident was still in my mind, the message and that familiar voice at the forefront.

I shove a t-shirt over my head and follow my brother down to the basement, finding them strung up, the blood from my previous prisoners still staining the floor.

There was no Enzo today but that was fine. I had other methods.

“Hello boys,” I smile my greeting.

Their masks had been removed and I stared into the faces of two of my own men. Newly recruited and young.

Atlas stands at my back, arms folded. They stare at him, pleading.

Interesting.

Suspicions had started to form inside my head, but I was a leader, and I wouldn’t blindly accuse without proof or witnesses.

I would take prisoners on every occasion, one of them will talk and while I’d been raised on the family rules, some people don’t take them as seriously.

The twins could very well be the very people making me an enemy.

And if that were true, I’d destroy them, brothers or not.

“I understand you’re young, you’re new, maybe you haven’t understood it completely.” I sit on a chair and prop my ankle on my knee, “Do you understand what I do to traitors?”

“Fuck you.”

“I can promise you now, whoever you’re working with, they’re nothing compared to me.”

The one on the left flicks his eyes to Atlas and then back to me, “We’re not working with anyone.”

I smile. “You believe me stupid?”

They remain silent. I lean across to the table and pluck a small knife from the top, pressing the very tip of it on my finger, not hard enough to break the skin.

“I’ll make you a deal,” I tell them, “You give me a name and I’ll letoneof you live.”

“I’m not a rat,” the one on the left snaps, spitting. It lands at my feet.

I don’t give him a chance to scream as I lunge forward and bury the knife into his throat. His eyes go wide and blood pours over my hand as I hold the knife there, digging it in. The one next to him cries out, lashing against the restraints that keep him hanging.

I delight in the life draining from the traitors’ eyes and only when his head rolls forward and his chest goes still do I yank the knife from his throat and slowly take a step over, standing directly in front of the other.

His face is pale, eyes wide and he tries to hide his fear behind a snarl, but it falls as flat as the tough guy act he puts on.

“Open wide,” I order.

“Fuck you!”

But that was his mistake, opening that big fucking mouth. I shove the knife into it, pressing the blade down onto his tongue and letting him taste his friend’s blood.

I’m careful so I don’t accidently hack off his tongue, I still need him to talk after all. He cries out against the blade and then when I yank it out, he vomits all over the floor, blood, saliva and the contents of his stomach hitting the concrete with a splash.

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