I would never admit this out loud, but I love the nights where I can hide in the dark and just watch her, the beautiful, intriguing woman that I piece together from afar. She’s quiet, stutters while at work, smiles shyly, and hides behind her hair. I clench my fists at the sight of her, at the image of how good my hands would look wrapped around the porcelain skin of her neck, slowly restricting her airway while I slammed my thick cock into her, hitting her conscience and pulling out to repeat all over again.
I can’t help it. Fuck! I want to steal her and keep her safe from that sick cunt Damon and from the bad men of the big wide world. Well, what about me? I fall into that category.
It’s nights like this that get me hard while watching her work, talk, smile through the glass of the coffee shop. I enjoy watching her routine, the little things she does. Like placing little Hershey Kisses on the side of the coffee saucers. The little mints she leaves them when they pay. The sweet purple flowers with a bright yellow center that she places on the side of the plates of sweet slices of cake she plates up. The way the light hits her hair setting the room on fire.
She tosses her head back in the most enticing way when she laughs with her customers. When she’s concentrating on something, she nibbles on her bottom lip My phone buzzes in my pocket pulling my eyes away from the red-haired beauty.
“What,” I bark into the phone.
“Meeting, Now,” Ian bites out.
“For fuck’s sake! Really?” I question him.
“Are you fucking kidding me, Micha,” he says back and my hand grips the steering wheel of my car, my knuckles white.
“Well, no. But I am fucking busy,” I snap back at him.
“I don’t fucking care. I own you,” he says and that instantly gets the hairs on my spine up. No one fucking owns me. I will bring this fuckhead to his knees. I don’t care what my grandfather says, I will cut his dick off and feed it to him.
“Fuck you,” I grit out, hanging up and stuffing my phone into my jean pocket. I steal one last glance at Layla before pulling out into the street.
***
The street is oddly quiet as I drive toward the strip club where Ian, the sick fuck, holds his meetings. It’s either here or the flower shop with the old man present. I prefer the flower shop, that means it’s something the old boy has ordered not some ‘let’s cause a ruckus because we can’ shit that Ian pulls. I hate walking in here, especially through the front. Seeing those women with blank stares and empty hearts so high they no longer know their own names bothers me. Taking the back entrance, I pull my car next to the king’s overly priced Audi. It’s customized with our family colors and crest. Showboating never appealed to me, makes me feel sick. I feel the bile rise inside my stomach hitting the back of my throat.
You, Ian Ragen, are a sick, greedy man who will meet my bullet one day.
“Finally, you decide to join us,” his slithering voice sounds out.
“You need to learn to watch your fucking mouth,” he says to me, taking a drag on his smoke. My eyes scan the room. The normal two-man ball-sack team that lick his asshole daily are there.
“Well, you also need to realize that I have other jobs and that I owe you fucking nothing. I am out fixing all your current fuck ups,” I grit out, pulling the seat out from the table and positioning myself the furthest away from them at the table.
I clench my jaw as he starts to laugh and his minions follow suit. God, men like that annoy me as they are just sheep.
“You’re lucky I like you, Micha, and respect our grandfather.” Flicking the ash from the tip of his smoke my eyes meet his.
“I’m lucky. HA,” I slightly laugh out at this fool.
“You’re the fucking lucky one Ian and respecting the old man, you sure have a funny way of showing it. Now, what do you want?”
Shaking his head, the other two smack each other in the chest with the backs of their hands.
“The boldness of this rookie,” one says.
“Yeah, thinks he’s Mafia royalty,” the other laughs out loud looking at me.
I lean forward on my knees and pull my Ruger from the inside of my jacket pocket.
Pointing it right at him, “I am Mafia royalty, fucker,” popping a bullet right inside his kneecap he screams out in pain as the sound echoes around the room and blood starts to drip from where the bullet shot straight through the kneecap it was so clean it was almost unsettling. I watch it pool on the floor; the beast inside pacing wanting more, so much more.
The way he screams out in pain as the burning feeling rippled through his flesh gets me high. The sweet sound as the blood began to ebb and flow from the wound. I like the sound of blood, I like the smell of it, I like how it drips - each drop so magnificent, so unique looking for a destination to ebb and flow into. But it’s the splatter of blood that intrigues me the most, especially when a gun is involved. The blood basically runs and flows trespassing on anybody and everything that comes close and in contact with it. It will go to anywhere and touch anyone. Marking you, tainting you, yet beautiful in a deep sinful and permanent way.
When a knife is involved though, it’s like violent whitewater rapids. It’s fast, it gushes out like a flood of broken water. Like anger, especially when a major artery is severed at the neck. That is my favorite site.
I love to watch the blood gush around men as the glaze of death frosts over inside their eyes, creeping from the edges as they gurgle and splutter on blood as its ebbs from their body painting a crimson portrait of sweet beautiful death.
My head cocks to the side as fuck boy number one’s mate grabs his gun pointing it toward me. My eyes narrow at him as anger ripples through me as the beast paces, scratching, clawing for release while I’m pointing my Ruger towards his cock.
