Page 45 of F*ckboys

He nods weakly. "Y-yes," he stammers, trembling beneath my glare.

"If you try to go to the authorities, we will know. We have evidence of your crimes, and we will not stop at torture next time. Is that clear? Your life, your family's lives, will be ruined. Do you understand you have no choice but to go through with our demands?"

"Ye—yes. I understand." He nods, his eyes wide.

"Grave, do you believe him?" I ask, my eyes never leaving Dickson's tear-streaked face.

"Fallon," Grave sighs, his grip on my arm tightening. "We've made our point. It's time to leave."

"I—I swear, I'll never bother her again." The man's breathing is ragged. "And I'll pay… whatever she needs."

"Damn right, you will," I spit, my voice venomous. Before we leave, I lean down, my lips brushing his vodka-soaked ear as I whisper, "Because if you don't do right by Janice, or if I hear of you hurting someone else ever again, I will hunt you down and I won't be so merciful next time."

As we leave the basement, the sounds of Dickson's labored breathing and shuddering sobs echo behind us. I feel a warped sense of satisfaction.

"Are you okay?" Grave asks, noticing the twisted smile on my face, his voice gentle and concerned as we make our way back to his truck.

"Better than ever," I admit, my heart still pounding with adrenaline. "Justice has once again been served."

Chapter 22

Fallon

The sun filters through the tall windows of Eden Cafe, casting warm rays across the small metal table I've claimed as my own. It's a stark contrast from the dark, dingy warehouse where Grave and I tortured Dickson Fineman only hours ago. I sip my espresso and watch the door, anticipation prickling beneath my skin. Bronson had mentioned this place a few times, but I'd never bothered to check it out until now.

I'm beginning to see why he likes it so much. It's trendy but cozy, local street art splashed across the brightly colored walls, rustic brick adorned with twinkling fairy lights and potted plants, and vintage chandeliers perched above an eclectic mix of vintage tables and chairs.

Music by local artists plays softly in the background as baristas roast organic, fair-trade coffee beans onsite, expertly crafting beverages served in mugs handcrafted by local artisans. It's bougie, but it works.

Bronson and his fairly new girlfriend, Wren, are due to arrive any minute now. I'm excited to get to know her, but also cautious. After all, we've seen how quickly relationships can go sour in our family. I was worried I'd be tired for this meeting after last night, but the heady combination of revenge-fueled motivation and potent caffeine have me feeling lively.

The door swings open, and there they are—Bronson, tall and confident, with a protective arm around Wren, her delicate features framed by golden curls that cascade down her back. She offers a tentative smile in my direction, her green eyes curious yet cautious. There's something captivating about her, like a hidden fire waiting to be unleashed.

"Hey, Fallon!" Bronson greets me with a grin as he pulls out a chair for Wren. "Thanks for meeting us here."

"Bronson," I greet him warmly, standing to embrace my older brother. His arms wrap around me protectively, the bond between us palpable. "It's good to see you."

"Always a pleasure, Fallon." He grins as we break apart, his gaze flicking toward Wren. "You remember Wren, right?"

"Of course," I say, extending my hand to her. I met her once in passing at an event, but this is the first time we're spending time in a more intimate setting where we can have more than cursory small talk. "Nice to see you again, Wren."

"Likewise, Fallon," she replies, her grip surprisingly firm despite her delicate appearance. Although she's smiling, she seems to be sizing me up. Her posture is slightly tense, as though she's afraid she might say or do something wrong. I can appreciate how daunting it must be to meet your significantother's only sister for the first time, and I make a mental note to put her at ease because, after all, she's important to my brother.

"I'm glad we get to spend some time together today," I smile. "I've heard so much about you and we haven't really had a chance to chat!"

"Likewise," she murmurs, her eyes locked on mine for a moment before darting away. It's clear she's nervous, but there's also a spark of excitement behind her gaze. She fidgets with her silver bracelet, her eyes darting from Bronson to me and back again.

The server stops by to take their order, and when they hurry off there's a lull in the conversation.

"Hey, Wren," I say, aiming to dissipate the tension. "Bronson mentioned you're quite the artist. What kind of stuff do you like to create?"

Her face lights up at the mention of art, and she visibly relaxes. "Oh, I love working with all sorts of different mediums, but my favorite is probably watercolor. There's just something so calming about it."

"Watercolor, huh?" I grin, recalling a memory. "Bronson once tried his hand at painting with watercolors. Let's just say he ended up looking like a smurf. In fact, if I look around hard enough I might still have a photo of him, his face smeared in bright blue, wearing some ridiculous white beret our mom made him wear while doing his beloved art projects."

"Hey!" Bronson exclaims, feigning offense. "It was an accident! And you're not meant to tell people about that!"

Wren giggles at the mental image, and I can't help but join in. It feels good to include her in our laughter, and I notice her shoulders loosen as she becomes more at ease.

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