Page 63 of The Players

Sy gave him a dirty look, but judging by his thundercloud face, Vince knew he wasn’t far off the mark. It was the morning after he’d pulled his friend off of Carmen. Unlike what he’d expected, she didn’t break apart in his arms when he took her to her room. He was quite proud of her for keeping it together. She’d been worried about Sy, afraid he would beat himself up over what had happened.

And rightfully so, because Sy had started the morning by not speaking a word to Carmen. He’d even skipped the breakfast Carmen made him. Guilt was obviously weighing heavy on his mind because nothing else could have stopped him from grabbing his favorite, waffles and maple syrup, from the counter.

With effort, Chad lifted his head. “It’s not me,” he grunted. “I swear it on my mom, that’s not me.” Sweat was pouring down his pudgy face as he slumped back into the chair.

Vince shoved the picture back in his face. “Don’t lie to me.”

Sy had a more hands-on approach. He grabbed Chad by the throat. “Unless you want to swear on yourdeadmother next, I’d fucking stop lying.”

Chad started making desperate sounds as Sy slowly choked the life out of him.

“Like I said, my friend here is in a bad mood and looking for an excuse to rip into someone.”

Sy growled, but didn’t let go of Chad’s throat.

“What?” Vince challenged. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

“I put my hands on her!” Sy roared and snapped Chad’s finger.

At least he’d stopped choking him. “You didn’t know—”

“That ain’t no excuse.” Three more of Chad’s fingers followed, until his hand looked like crumpled origami. “That’s what dear old Mom always used to say. ‘Lowell didn’t know what he was doing, Sy. He was drunk. You can’t be mad at him.’ Same went for Mike, Frank, Paul, and every other fucker she ever brought home.”

It was the first time Sy spoke of his childhood. Of course, Vince has seen the scars on his body. The road the cigarette burns had painted on his chest couldn’t be missed, but there were things he knew not to push Sy on. In a way, he was thankful Carmen had broken down those walls.

He just wished it had been in a different manner. Sy wasn’t his brother by blood, but they had fought together, almost died together, and most importantly, had each other’s back. They were family in every way that mattered. It killed him that he thought he had to carry his scars alone, but that was just the way he was.

“You’re not them. Carmen knows that. I could barely keep her from storming back into your room last night.”

“She did?”

“Yeah. She was concerned about you. Still is. I got four messages telling me to bring you home.”

Sy frowned, then turned his attention back to Chad. “Talk. Now.”

“I can’t tell you who they are,” Chad stammered. “They’ll kill me if they ever find out.”

Sy smashed his fist in Chad’s face and flattened his already broken nose. “Kill you, huh? And what exactly did you think I was going to do to you? Make you a basket? Braid your fucking hair?”

A combo of fists plowed into Chad’s face, right up until the moment he slumped to the side and the chair fell. Sy cursed and pulled it back up, looking annoyed as hell.

Vince just sat back and relaxed. This was therapy for his friend. Sy needed this, just as Vince needed to find every fucker in that picture.

Chad spit out a mess of blood and another tooth. The man looked ready to puke.

Vince couldn’t feel any sympathy for him. Men like him still breathing was an insult to trees.

It had taken him weeks, and a fortune in payoffs, to get into Dwight’s private vault at his bank. There, he’d found two pictures in a manila envelope. Both of them showed a naked Carmen with clearly disoriented eyes. In the second one, she didn’t even seem conscious. Around her were four masked men holding whips and canes, including Franco.

The sick fucker had hoarded the pictures, to do God knows what with. Probably to blackmail Carmen until the end of days. Men like Dwight who had everything—money, power—got bored, and went on to look for the next thrill. Some found that in racing expensive cars, others, by preying on the weak. Dwight had been one of the latter.

He should have taken care of Franco sooner. When he’d first came into Obsidian and soon after the sub he’d been playing with had gone missing, he should have taken care of him. Except, back then, he’d believed his judgment was clouded because of the jealousy he felt every time he thought about Franco owning Carmen. The only solace he found was that, in the end, he’d taken out Franco himself.

The last time he’d been in this part of the underground dungeon, Franco’s shouts had been echoing off the walls.

He entered the dungeon to find Hector and Gio already there. They stood before Franco’s slumped body that was tied to a St. Andrew’s cross. He wasn’t moving.

His brother’s eyes settled on him. “Figure you’d want to be here.”

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