He doesn’t look dangerous at first. Average height, average build, somewhere around fifty. I don’t know him.
Behind him stand my father’s men, their guns already raised and steady. Colton is there, too.
Adam tilts his head, and an amused smile pulls at his mouth. The knife spins once between his fingers again, before he catches it by the blade.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk. I ‘m disappointed in you, Alaric,” he says, bored of the conversation before it even starts.
He takes a step closer to the doorway, his shoulder brushing the frame. His eyes drag over Alaric from head to toe.
“All those years pretending you had standards,” he continues, rolling his neck once. “Pretending you hunted men like him because you believed in something.”
His gaze flicks to the guns behind Alaric, then back to his face, completely unimpressed.
“And now look at you. Waiting at his door like a dog waiting for its master to throw it a bone.”
He lifts the knife, pointing it lazily toward Alaric’s chest, then taps the flat of it against his own lips like he’s thinking.
“Tell me something. Does he pat your head after you fetch, or do you just kneel without being told?”
He lets out a dry laugh that sounds forced, then slowly crosses his arms.
“Classic old Manson,” he says, voice thick with mockery. “Always running that mouth. Always thinking you’re the smartest bastard in the room.”
He shifts his weight, looking Adam up and down.
“Funny hearing you talk about rules. You never cared about sides. You just liked killing people who thought they mattered.”
“What can I say?” Adam shrugs. “They were annoying. And, unlike you, I have standards.”
Alaric rolls his eyes, but Adam continues. “Now, be a doll and get the fuck out of my way. I have a fucker to butcher.”
“How cute,” Alaric mocks. “In fact, he’s been waiting for you.”
Adam steps closer, eyes locked on Alaric. He stays planted in place, blocking the path without moving a muscle.
“Right,” Adam mutters, dragging his finger along the blade. “You forget how fast you start pissing yourself when I’m holdinga knife. I can smell that scared shit from here.” He slams the knife into the door frame and leaves it there.
“You don’t run anything here, Bane. My dogs will make sure of that.”
Adam chuckles and begins handing over his weapons, pulling them off himself one by one. Nobody bothers checking the one strapped to his thigh.
Arrogance makes people sloppy.
Then, he turns to us, grinning like something’s loose in his head. He jerks his chin toward Alaric’s men, already bored, telling us to hand the weapons over.
My eyes dart between the three boys, but when I see how easily they give up their guns, knives, grenades, and brass knuckles, I do the same with my knife.
Adam, lastly, hands over his bloodied machete.
“Good boy,” Alaric mocks. “Now … You know the way.”
He walks in first, and the rest of the men pull back their gun hammers. Adam goes in right after, that twisted smile glued to his face while he stares each one of them straight in the eye. I follow next, and then Cain and Judas. Everyone comes right after us, some carrying our weapons.
The house hasn’t changed much since I left. Same depression in the walls, same chaotic silence, same fear in the staff’s eyes.
We walk through the wide and long corridors that lead deeper, past doors I know are locked from the outside.
They lead us straight to the main dining hall, with that long table that could sit twenty people. It’s already set like he’s been waiting for us to show up and eat together like one big, fucked-up family.
