And again.
His nose crunches beneath my knuckles, cartilage giving way with a wet crack.
He screams, but I don't stop.
My men watch in silence. This isn't personal for them. It's business.
But for me?
This is catharsis.
Each punch lands harder than the last.
I hit him again. My knuckles split open, blood mixing with his.
Another punch, this one so hard Michael's head lolls to the side.
I step back, breathing hard, my hand throbbing.
Michael gurgles, blood bubbling from his mouth, his face unrecognizable.
He's still trying to talk, his words slurred and broken.
"P please… I'm… I'm s sorry…"
I turn to one of my men.
"Gun."
He steps forward immediately, pulling a pistol from his holster and handing it to me.
I check the chamber out of habit, then turn back to Michael.
His eyes widen, bloodshot and desperate.
"No, no, please, Mr. Killaney."
"You think I'm in the mood for mercy?"
I press the barrel to his temple.
He's still begging, words flowing out in a wet, gurgling mess, when I pull the trigger.
The shot echoes through the warehouse as his head jerks back, blood and brain matter splattering across the crates behind him.
His body slumps, the chair tipping further until it crashes onto its side.
I hand the gun back to the guard, wiping my bloody hand on my pants.
"Leave him here," I say. "Let our men see in the morning what happens when you steal."
I turn and walk toward the door.
None of my men speak.
This was me showing the entire room what happens when you cross the Killaneys while they're bleeding.
The SUV is quiet on the drive back.
