Kneeling down, I took hold of his hand, and without remorse, I chopped off one finger as he screamed in agony, the sound irritating my ears, and then I chopped off another one so he wouldn't waste his lungs for nothing. “Do you want to change your answer now?”
He spat excess saliva from his mouth, and I noticed a wet spot on his black pants that disgusted me.
Apparently, you had to grow up in the brotherhood to take punishment like a man.
“I—” he started, his voice cracking through his lips. “I—”
“Unfortunately, that isn't the answer to my question.” He tensed, expecting the bolt cutters again, but instead, I stood up and placed them back on the table.
The fun was about the unexpected, after all.
The gasoline in my hands sounded like a nice idea, so I splashed it over him, and in a minute, the smell permeated the warehouse, and thank fuck for that as it blocked the disgusting smells he had produced. He shook his head wildly and mumbled something I couldn't hear.
“Sorry, Ben. Your speech wasn't coherent enough for me.” I played with the matches in my hands, making them rub against each other, and he paled even more, if it was possible.
Despite everything, he did value his life. Most people didn't even know how much they wanted to live until someone threatened to take it away from them.
As part of my life in the brotherhood, I had taken lives many times, and each time, it hurt me and blackened my heart. Those people just made mistakes, and sometimes they deserved a second chance.
Standing in front of Ben, I couldn't fucking wait to kill him, and no guilt was present. He was an abusive asshole who never married or had friends, because he preferred to spend his time tormenting inmates. Everyone hated him, and as much as I had tried to find redeeming qualities in him, I failed.
“I will tell you everything,” he finally whispered, and I came closer. “I’m sorry for how I treated you.” Rolling my eyes at his fucking bullshit apology, I kicked him hard between the legs and he groaned loudly.
“Who ordered you to do that?”
He swallowed loudly, strength leaving him probably from the wound on his back and missing fingers, but he licked his dry lips and answered, panting, “A man approached me right after you went into prison, waited for me outside the prison, and offered good money if I promised to make your life hell there. I refused, because he looked crazy and young. Who would have such money?” He gulped more air and continued, “He then gave me the check, and the amount made me almost faint. I half expected the Bratva to get out of the bushes and flash a camera on me so they could use it in a trial or something. Nothing happened, so I accepted.”
“What was his name?” Fucking everyone—well, except Conrad, since I didn't care much for his story—mentioned the exact same thing.
“I don’t know. He asked me to call him Director, and since the check came every month, I didn’t bother to ask.”
Director.
As in the man who led the actors, indicating it was all just a show for him?
Then who was I? The fucking audience?
After all, the show was for my benefit.
“Is that all?” I played with the matches again, just to stir him up, but he nodded.
“Don’t know anything else. The only thing he asked was for me to keep you alive. He never wanted you to die, and he was fucking pissed when he thought I organized that ambush on you a year ago.” He quickly pleaded, “It wasn't me. I have no clue who did it.”
He needed me alive. But why? If he hated me so much and liked to inflict suffering on me, wouldn't it be logical to kill me off?
Unless he thought I owed him for something, and my life in pain was his revenge? Nothing was adding up here.
The only person who could have such a desire would be…
Fuck.
Edward Jackson, Vivian’s father.
Everything led to him. He had no alibi for the night, he hated my guts for touching his daughter, and he was rich enough to pay off everyone.
I would have considered Alex Jordan, but with his secret life, it just couldn't be him. Yuri found information on him and some photos, and let’s just say the guy was too busy with his own problems to organize all this. At the time of the trial, he was out of the country and came back once the verdict was announced. A person with so much hate toward me would have stayed and enjoyed the show of his making.
My grand finale was always killing the person responsible for my suffering, but how would I kill the father of the woman I loved?
