“Alright, well, if I have to pretend I’m sucking his dick, I need a drink first.” Jasmine grabs a bottle of top-shelf whiskey from the bar and takes a long pull before she plops down on Winston’s lap.
She grabs him by the hair on the back of his head, holding him upright as she smacks him across the face.
“Look alive, motherfucker. This isn’t Weekend at Bernie’s.”
His eyes open at half-mast, and Jasmine presses the silicone mask against his face, staging a kiss as Chantel snaps photos. The images get progressively worse as the hour wears on and we move the men around, orchestrating scenes I wish I could erase from memory.
I had no desire to see what their pencil-dicks looked like, but when these images get passed around to their wives, I doubt they’ll be doing too much grieving.
We make sure to get shots with all of them, avoiding any identifying features of the women. Throughout that time, we send them out in their group chat with some of their other pals, leaving a trail of evidence behind.
Once we have enough, Cristian helps the women onto the other boat, and they head back to Seattle while the rest of us finish preparations.
Rafe and Michele drag the men out onto the aft deck, and I choose three at random and bag their heads, leaving them to suffocate.
While they do that, I set up two stations with five-gallon buckets of ocean water, then I get to work.
I grab one of the sleeziest-looking assholes first, shoving his head into the bucket until he goes limp.
“What the fuck were you thinking, Romeo?” Angelo kicks Cal in the face before he dunks him.
“I was thinking I did the world a favor.”
I heave the first guy aside and choose another, trying not to grimace as I work. My ribs hurt like a motherfucker, and my leg is definitely fucked for a few days at least. The pain is really setting in now.
“You’re lucky they got your back tire,” Rafe observes. “Or you might be in a whole other world of hurt right now.”
“Yeah, lucky,” I grunt.
It was no accident they shot my back tire, and if I had to venture a guess, it was at Ares’s directive. He’s trying to worm his way into our business, and splattering my brains all over the pavement isn’t conducive to that. But that’s what I get for going in distracted.
“You can’t take matters into your own hands unsanctioned.” Angelo tosses Cal’s corpse onto the deck.
Rafe smirks, seizing the opportunity to point out the hypocrisy. “You mean like you did with your wife?”
“Gabi isn’t his wife,” Angelo clips out. “That’s a whole other issue we need to discuss. You either need to renegotiate her marriage contract and make her an honest offer or back off. Killing Riccardo isn’t an option.”
“Why not?” Rafe grumbles. “He’s annoying as fuck.”
While he and Angelo argue over the purpose of Riccardo’s existence, I think about what Angelo said. The idea of making Gabi my wife stirs something in my chest I refuse to identify.
Tonight, I lost control again. If I had been near her, I could have hurt her. It’s a cold, hard reality check that nothing has changed.
You aren’t good for her.
Not like this.
Those words live rent-free in my head for a reason. I’m too fucked up for her, and I can’t be what she needs. But I don’t know how to stay away from her either.
“By the way,” Angelo says. “Abella knows you’ve been fucking with Gabi. After your stunt at dinner, I had to tell her. So you can expect to hear from her soon.”
I consider that, wondering when she’ll fill Gabi in. But that’s a problem for later.
“What did Richard’s nephew and his friends do, anyway?” Rafe asks.
“They have a secret society at the university,” I tell them. “They’ve been drugging and assaulting women as part of their initiation, and Gabi was one of their targets.”
“Christ.” Angelo’s jaw tightens.
