Page 126 of The Ruin I Chose

“How many will you take down, huh?” Lorenzo asked, spitting blood on the floor. “You destroy one, two more crawl out of the gutter.”

Lorenzo scoffed. “Your chink boy here’ll take over. When there’s demand, supply finds a way.”

Ronnie unsheathed his blade—long, curved, gleaming. He moved fast. One slice to the calf. Another to the thigh. A third across the bicep. Skin peeled open like fruit. Blood dripped onto the concrete. Lorenzo jerked, hissed, blood blooming in ribbons. But he didn’t scream.

“In our clubs, the women consent to sexual acts. No one is forced. No one below the age of twenty is allowed to work. We are not savages, preying on the young and innocent.”

“Well…” Lorenzo smirked, eyes gleaming with rot.

“…you’ve never tasted young pussy. So tender. So easy to break.”

The room shifted. Every man in it wanted his tongue cut out for that sentence. Ronnie stepped behind him. Dragged the blade across Lorenzo’s back slowly. Lorenzo writhed.

“Tell me, losègu,” Ronnie said.

“Have you heard of Lingchi? Death by a thousand cuts?”

He circled Lorenzo like a predator.

“Years ago, the triads carved their enemies piece by piece with one thousand cuts on their bodies, carefully making sure not to nick any major artery.” He bent down to face him.

“So, you can stay alive as long as possible.”

Blood trickled down his legs, slow and steady. Lorenzo barred his teeth at him.

“Marcello, Comu sta ‘sta buttana toja?” he said through bloody teeth. (How is that whore of yours?)

“What was her name? The one whose skin is soft as milk, and ass…”

He motioned his tied hands provocatively.

“I can still smell her. Intoxicating, isn’t she?”

He cocked his head to one side, eyes narrowed.

“Roxanne, right?”

His lips split into a bloodied grin. The rage in my head detonated. I saw red. I became every demon he made me. Fists, rage, bone, blood—all one violent blur.

My fist met his face—bone cracked. I didn’t stop. I hammered his ribs, his gut, his jaw. I kept punching until he coughed blood.

“Don’t you dare say her name from your filthy mouth,” I growled.

I grabbed the pliers and pulled apart his nail. It came off with a wet crack—his scream ricocheted off steel walls like music.

“This is for Aunt Olivia.”

Another nail.

“This is for Elaine.”

I reached for the cigar slicer. Clamped it around his stubby finger and snapped. The cutter sheared bone clean—blood sprayed in a perfect arc across my shirt.

“This is for Papi.”

Lorenzo howled. No one came. We made sure of that.

“I thought you’d have a longer list,” he spat, blood dripping from his chin.