Reece resumes his assessment. His hand skims down my spine, across my back and ribs, where I baulk. “Might be broken,” he mumbles. His fingers brush lightly through my hair, searching for injuries, but come to a stop when the stairs creak.
Chapter 24
Dante
Idrop the piece of shit onto the filthy cement of the makeshift jail cell. The dumbfuck is not deadweight, but damn, he could lose a few pounds, preferably in blood and flesh.
His head hits the floor with a sickening crack—well, not sickening to me; I enjoy it—and the air whooshes from his lungs.
I press my boot to his windpipe just in case the asshole gets any ideas. “That one of them?”
The man my brother adores, the one I’ve become addicted to overnight, gives a sharp nod then averts his gaze.
People joked I got the brains and Des got the charm. It bothered him far more than it did me, because I don’t care and he’s not stupid.
One thing holds true, however: he has all the emotions, the humanity, and I have none.“Live or die?”
Lucas’ answer is no surprise. “Live.” But he shocks the hell out of me when he continues, “I want you to send a message to the rest of them.” His bloodshot eyes, surrounded by deep red and purple bruising, connect with mine. “Let them know what happens when they mess with us.”
Us.Welcome to the dark side, my addiction. The Rossi side. There’s no going back now. You don’t rehabilitate from murder and torture. It becomes you or it breaks you, and we won’t allow Lucas to break.
My twin kisses his temple. “You got it, baby.” Then, he glances up at me. “Make sure they know who it’s from.”
Des holds Lucas while Reece staunches the flow of blood from an open wound on Lucas’ scalp. Reece mutters something about being surrounded by psychos but otherwise doesn’t intervene.The way he violently responded to Aurora’s voice while fighting to come out of anesthesia leads me to believe the same darkness flows through his veins.
He also didn’t flinch when I shot someone in the forehead upstairs. Instead, he lifted his gun and shot the next dickwad square between the eyes. He’s competitive.
I don’t consider myself a psycho. I’m not dysfunctional. Jax tends to lose his tether to reality at times. Me? I know precisely what I’m doing, and I don’t give a fuck. I’m not saying I’m a vigilante, but the world could use fewer predators. I have zero remorse. Maybe I’m a sociopath.
The wheezing prick whose throat is under my boot doesn’t have much consciousness left, and I need him to escape.
When he stepped out of the stairwell, I snuck up behind him and tore through his shoulder with a serrated knife—my favorite weapon. He went straight to his knees and dropped his gun.
Typically, I’d say jumping someone from behind or stabbing someone in the back was cowardly, but they showed Lucas no mercy, and I have none for them. I stomped on the fucker’s face and ribs until the damage exceeded what was done to our boy. Fair is fair.
Apparently, Lucas doesn’t care for loud noises, particularly grown-ass men shrieking. He covered his ears and tucked into Desi’s chest. I shut the bastard up quickly with an uppercut tothe jaw, but he’s bound to wake and scream like a banshee when I slice through his skin.
“You got zip ties, Viking?” I plan to let this dickhead loose on Skid Row for his friends to find. All he needs is a working set of legs.
Reece uses his free hand to search through his bag. “Hurry. He can die in the alleyway for all I give a fuck, but not here. Not with your monogram on his skin.” He passes the plastic restraints.
His arm shakes, and I know he’s hurting, but he doesn’t complain.
Ain’t no way this rapist piece of shit is ratting on us, not after kidnapping and assaulting a federal agent. He’s lucky I’m letting him live with only a few scars, broken bones, and a horror story.
I crouch and make quick work of binding the douche canoe’s wrists. He attempts to kick me, and I punch him in the nuts.
“Keep your feet to yourself. Didn’t your mama teach you anything?”
He balls up into a fetal position, gasping for breath, his wrists tied tightly behind his back. It’s his own fucking fault for being stupid, a predator, and for touching what’s mine, but I digress.
I grip my blade in one hand and the idiot’s hair in the other. “Tell me your favorite song, Lucas.”
Des wears that unwavering grin, as constant as death and the sunrise. “Oh, I love this game. We used to play this as kids.”
“My favorite song?” Lucas’ voice cracks, and he whisper-sings the lyrics, “Don’t stop be-lieving…”
“Journey?” Des asks, taken aback. “No shit.”
