With him and given the number of scars covering his body, I had a feeling he’d been trained in the art of enduring torture.
We’d find out.
The flame was inches away from his chest when I noticed something. There were few men I knew in our world who didn’t wear a tattoo as a sign of loyalty to something. Whether the military or whatever syndicate they belonged to. The emblem on his chest was something else entirely.
It reminded me of a crest.
“What is that?” I asked, not expecting an answer.
“True power.”
I lifted my gaze and instead of the snarky attitude he’d had up until this point, he wore an expression of pride. “Power,” I repeated before turning my head toward Mikhail. Perhaps there was no reason for me to change my mind about torturing the man, but what I’d seen in his eyes was nothing more than true loyalty, the kind that we demanded in all those who worked for us.
Likely to Mikhail’s surprise, I turned off the canister and grabbed my phone instead, taking several photographs of the emblem.
Where in God’s name had I seen it before? It definitely wasn’t gang or cartel related. Not just an emblem, but a crest. A family crest.
Family crests were rarely used in America. Even the founding families hadn’t bothered to keep up with old world traditions. Those in Europe and Russia were more likely. Including Ireland.
Maybe I was growing soft in my old age. Or maybe I didn’t want to disappoint Lainey. Whatever the case, I shifted my attention to the standing by the pulley. “Let him down.”
The employee stared at me briefly before shifting a quick gaze toward Mikhail. I didn’t turn to seek advice from my Pakhan. There was no need.
“Um. Are you certain?”
I clearly intimidated him by the way he stuttered and shifted from foot to foot.
“Do it!” I snarled.
The young man responded instantly. Maybe he realized I was on the edge. Maybe he knew crossing me at this point wasn’t in his best interest.
“Untie him,” I continued.
When the assailant was untied, he struggled to his feet, gasping for air. The pain had to be horrific, yet he refused to give in to the agony. The reason was as unexpected to him as it was to me.
I’d let him go.
I was shocked I hadn’t heard a thing from the peanut gallery, although I knew my brother certainly wouldn’t let this go without chiding me for years. He’d enjoyed doing so at my expense.
The silence was awkward, the only sound a strange ticking from somewhere in the building. I stepped closer. The stench of sweat was strong, but surprisingly, he hadn’t pissed himself. He’d certainly been trained to withstand all acts of torture. I studied his naked body as he was doing to my face.
He had several tattoos, which indicated nothing other than that he was eclectic. Yet no other was as colorful as the crest, a portion gilded in gold. However, I sensed the tattoos were a roadmap to his experiences, which was why I made mental note of the others.
The Irish enjoyed decorating their bodies much like any American biker did. However, they rarely shouted out their loyalty to their particular clans with colorful body art.
“You’re going to be handed off to another organization. What they do with you is none of our concern. But from what I’ve heard, they enjoy spending days in discovery. It’ll be entirelyup to you whether you cooperate or not. I honestly don’t give a damn.”
If he thought he would get off scot-free from punishment at the hand of the man whose daughter he’d threatened, he was fucking out of his mind.
I issued several brutal punches, one right after another.
Face.
Nose broken. Jaw possibly cracked.
“That’s for my little girl and her best friend.”
Head.
