I will lose my fucking mind if I don’t give her what she wants so she can give me what I need. It’s simple in theory.
She hasn’t wavered. My wife is a damn force, but maybe once she discovers the entire story, she won’t want a kid anymore.
I am not equipped to be a father, especially to a boy, refusing to fuck him up like mine did me. I would rather blow my brains out than ever hurt my child.
The muffled sounds pull me back into the present, my attention returning to the men hanging from the ceiling in the basement.
I shift from one to the next.
Whoever comes after what’s mine ends up dead—a painful yet vital lesson. Whoever dares to come after my wife will suffer infinitely worse. A quick death is a mercy I won’t bestow on them.
With lids stapled to keep their eyes open, I force them to watch the digital pictures displayed on the wall of all they hold dear in this life. Their wannabe empire going up in flames.
Dragging the knife up the first one’s front, I put it under his chin, nipping the skin. The first drop of blood coats the blade, telling of the impending gore.
Snot and tears mix into a grotesque painting of loss.
There’s not a single doubt that they’ll die, they simply wish the torture to end.
No such luck.
I carve the knife into his chest, and twisting it, I pull the blade down to his belly, gutting him like a fish.
He watches my handwork as his intestines spill out, life leaking out of him, subsiding into a murmur of death.
The other prays, a hundred apologies rolling into an endless river of regret.
I spin him around, replicating the action on his back. His wails fill my ears, but I am too far gone in violence’s haze. Only the thought that they would have captured her destroys every human part of me.
They wouldn’t have shown mercy. On the contrary. Out loud, I read their text exchanges aboutmywife. They would have used her holes to turn her into a fucking loose whore who they’d fuck until they had enough. Once they were done with her, they would have sent her back to me–broken beyond repair.
I follow a credo. There are consequences if you break it. Innocent beings should never be involved. Most women, all children, are untouchable.
But for some lowlifes, the shortcut proves too tempting to resist.
After I expose his entire back, I drop the knife, clattering on the floor. The sound echoes of irreparable damage, blood coating my hands like a messenger of Death. I dig my hands inside and rip his ribs out, spreading them into wings of bones.
Spinning him around, I watch the life extinguish from his eyes.
My men shift in the corners, the sight even for seasoned killers, horrendous.
I am an advocate of repeating lessons. People are forgetful, and every time an opportunity presents itself, I show my men why I am the boss. It’s not only a display of power, but a claim of control.
This lesson is even more barbaric because it’s personal. It entertains me when people come after me, in and out of the underworld. I enjoy a good challenge just to appease my ego—a famished beast always on the hunt for validation, so I encourage the match. Come after my wife, and the punishment will be a hundred times worse than death.
For a moment, I thought it was Demyan, but these men showed no tattoos or any allegiance to the Bratva. The only thing in common is that they come from the slum he rules.
He’s getting sloppier, making me wonder what’s going on.
Focusing on the second man, intestines and blood smudge the floor, the air reeks with the stench of shit. Their faces are still recognizable. I always thought using your fists to be uncultured. Now give me a knife, and I will create a masterpiece.
“Deliver them to the harbor for everyone to see,” I say to one of my men, who rushes to comply.
Even the harbor I have to share with that prick. I haven’t gotten softer since I married, but more feral. I have someone to protect, and for my woman, I’d cross every damn boundary.
I don’t clean my hands, the reddish hue reminds me of why I am where I am. It infuses me with power. I lost my conscience like my innocence, long before I had any notion of what is good or bad, morally wrong or acceptable.
At the top, you don’t have to ask. You define the code of conduct.
