Page 137 of Addicted

Wes’s eyes went wide.

“What?” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

I smirked.

“Yeah, nigga,” I said. “She’s pregnant. You put my baby in danger.”

I saw the realization hit him. Saw the fear flash across his face. Because he knew that this wasn’t just about him kidnapping the woman I loved. This wasabout him threatening my family. And for that, he had to suffer.

I looked around the room.

It was fully equipped. Knives. Pliers. A blowtorch. A hacksaw. Everything I needed. I walked over to the table and picked up a pair of pliers.

Wes started hyperventilating.

“Stone, man, please,” he begged, his voice shaking. “Just kill me. Just fuckin’ kill me.”

I looked at him and smiled. A cold, cruel smile.

“Nah,” I said. “You said you was gon’ cut off Indie’s fingers, right? So that’s where I’ma start.”

Wes’s eyes filled with tears.

“Please, man,” he sobbed. “Please don’t do this.”

I didn’t respond. I just walked over to him and grabbed his right hand. He tried to pull away, but he was weak and the ropes held him in place. I positioned the pliers around his index finger, and then I squeezed.

Wes screamed.

A bloodcurdling, animalistic scream that echoed off the walls.

But I didn’t stop.

I kept squeezing until I felt the bone crack, and then I twisted. The finger came off with a sickening pop. Blood poured from the wound, pooling on the floor.

Wes was sobbing now, his whole body shaking, but I wasn’t done. I moved to the next finger. And the next. And the next. By the time I was done, all five fingers on his right hand were gone. His hand was a mangled, bloody mess.

Wes had passed out halfway through, but I kept going. Kept removing his fingers one by one. Because he deserved it. Deserved every second of pain.

When I was done, I stepped back and looked at him. He was barely breathing. His face was pale, his body was limp. He didn’t have long. But I wasn’t satisfied. I walked over to the table and grabbed a gun.

I walked back to Wes and raised the gun, and then I fired. The first shot hit him in the chest. The second in the stomach. The third in the face. I kept firing. Over and over again until the gun was empty and Wes’s body was riddled with bullets. Until his face was unrecognizable.

I stood there for a moment, staring at what was left of him. And I felt... nothing.

No satisfaction.

No relief.

Just emptiness.

Because no amount of torture could undo what he’d done. It couldn’t erase the fear Indie had felt or take back the bruises on her neck. It couldn’t change the fact that I’d failed to protect her.

I dropped the gun on the floor and walked out of the room.

Antoine and Deacon were waiting outside.

“Get rid of the body,” I said, my voice flat.