Or that sensitive part of muscle behind their kneecaps that attaches to the back of their thighs.
Or that delicate tendon in the back of their ankles that connects their foot to their calf.
There are too many fun ways to torture someone that fill my chest with a repulsively sweet satisfaction. It may be a twisted fascination, but my personal favorite is when I can feel the vibration of my blade grazing bone through my palm.
Depends on what kind of mood I’m in.
But I favor the latter before I remove their organs and dispose of them like they're nothing but useless trash that has plagued this earth.
It’s a Megalley thing.
A way of life drilled into my DNA before I even understood death. Our mark on the world was imprinted on me long before I learned how to ride a bike.
Sympathy doesn’t run in our bloodline when it comes to someone fucking with our operations.
My eyes are locked on dull green ones that falter enough to shred any last remaining speck of trust I had in this man who has only ever defied me. Rowan knows I’ll be the boss one day when my father, Arden, is torn from the only life he has ever known. Yet it doesn’t stop the challenge that flickers in his lifeless eyes whenever he reports to me.
Which is most of the damn time, since I monitor the routes for our contraband and illegal weapons shipments.
The fucking nerve of this man has snapped my sanity, and now he has found himself at my mercy.
Too bad for him, I don’t have much of a fucking heart to let his beat another moment. He’s made a fool out of me one too many times, and in return, I’m making a mess out of him. There’s a red splatter across the floor resembling a Pollock painting, tossed across a gray canvas, beneath the metal chair that keeps him restrained.
Powerless.
Defenseless.
When a month ticks by and he doesn’t return home, I’ll send word to his wife that he died at sea during one of our usuallobster runs. Navigating rough waters and unrelenting storms is a way of life for fishermen on the Atlantic Coast. Not that she’d probably mind. This bastard runs through wives like they’re tissues. Nothing more than bodies to own and dip his dick into.
Not sure what happens to them once he decides to move on, but I’ve got a pretty good guess if he’s as drunk and ill-tempered as he is in the field working for the Megalley Syndicate. If he’s like this here, I can only wonder what he’s like at home when bottles of liquor are more easily accessible.
The blade I’m still twirling flashes in the overhead fluorescent lights, shimmering silver and red from the sheen of blood. I stop spinning the knife and grip the handle, lowering to his level to rip the duct tape off his mouth, taking with it salt and pepper strands of hair from his full beard. He flashes his teeth, his enraged growl thundering through the room. His once bright crimson bodily fluids seeping through his grimy jeans and t-shirt are a deep scarlet now from the break I’m taking, hoping his current pain will push the truth off his tongue.
Instead, his lip lifts in a sneer, revealing those yellow and decaying teeth that have resulted from years of smoking and alcoholism. A lifestyle choice that has the acrid smell of smoke seeping through his pores. It combines with the pungent scent of his sweat, overriding the musty odor of the concrete room we use for interrogation. And torturing if we aren’t getting the information we seek.
It wouldn’t astonish me if his insides are ash.
I wonder what his lungs look like.
My blade vibrates in my hands, curious to find out.
His Irish accent is potent. “It’s not my fucking problem that you’ve got your head up your ass and aren’t receiving full shipments. This never happened when Arden was fully in charge.”
I’m not sure why my father decided to bring this fucker along when he decided to move us permanently to the estate in Lachlan Harbor instead of bouncing around from one estate overseas to the one here like we usually did.
I was fourteen when we began spending most of our time in the States after expanding our borders further. We still go home to Ireland a few times a year to visit my grandparents and check in, but not as often as we used to. Our operations are large enough and well-maintained that we have personnel stationed there to run everything while we’re here.
Ireland is easy.
The States, on the other hand, are full of big, flesh-eating fish that we swam alongside in the dark for a long time when the Megalley Syndicate first started way back before my father was born.
Now we are among them.
Rowan’s condescending laugh has me clenching my jaw hard enough to shatter my teeth. “Boss’s biggest mistake has been splitting his empire with a fucking child—”
Similar to the crack of lightning zapping a tree on a mountaintop, my knife glides through the side of his beer belly like a warm stick of butter. A spitting roar cracks through the room, his body thrashing around in the chair that his arms and legs are bound to.
It’s fucking music to my ears.
