Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 66590 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 333(@200wpm)___ 266(@250wpm)___ 222(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66590 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 333(@200wpm)___ 266(@250wpm)___ 222(@300wpm)
_____
I pulled up outside the warehouse on the outskirts of Queens. Emilia sat in the passenger seat, her gaze shifting around the series of dilapidated and shadowy buildings. I should have left her at the hospital with Tommy. I didn’t really know why I’d brought her. All day, my mind had been a rollercoaster of blame and repeated conversations, memories… things I could have done differently. Emilia being one of them.
So, maybe some fucked up bit of me wanted her to see this and for her to run because I told myself that this time I might just let her go. That I needed to because my obsession with her was bad for us both. But what I should do and would do were—as always with her—conflicted.
“Stay here.”
I got out of the car and walked toward the warehouse. The last twenty-four hours had been a blur of whiskey and rage, and this was the culmination of that because Una had found the guy who had shot Tommy, and I was about to unleash the kind of retribution I rarely allowed on this man. That feral bloodlust pulsed through my veins like poison. I wanted to maim, kill, and destroy anyone and everyone who played a single part in harming Tommy. A couple of cars were parked inside the dilapidated building, their headlights illuminating the gruesome scene before me.
The place was long abandoned, but in the center was a single man, David O’Hara, his bound wrists hooked to a chain in the ceiling. He was beaten and bloody, cuts littering his bare torso, both eyes swollen shut. One nipple was missing, a stream of blood running from the spot like a tap. The place was a symphony of Jackson’s fists hitting his flesh over and over again, the ominous creak of the chain and a slow, drip, drip, drip of blood spattering the dusty concrete. Shadows swayed back and forth in the headlights along with his body, like demons dancing and writhing on the walls.
A few of Jackson’s men lingered nearby, none daring to get too close. Probably because Una sat on the hood of the nearby SUV, flipping a knife in her hand. Tommy was one of the few people she cared about. When Jackson stepped back, she took his place, a cold smile on her face as she placed the knife to his chest and dug the blade in. He screamed and bucked as she cut off his other nipple.
“Please,” he begged.
I smiled. “You’ll find no mercy here, but you’re welcome to beg for your worthless life.”
Tommy hadn’t even been given that chance.
Una started carving lines into his flesh, turning him into her own personal canvas. She wasn’t usually so gratuitous. Violence always had a purpose with her, and I was the same, but this was different. This wasn’t logical and calculated because this man tried to take someone from us. The fact was, Tommy should be dead right now, and he was hanging on by a thread. Thanks to this piece of shit.
“Jackson.” I glanced at my friend, and he flashed me a vicious grin.
“Want me to deprive him of a few fingers?”
I nodded. “Shoot him up first. He looks like he’s on the verge of passing out.”
Jackson pulled a case from the trunk of the car and drew up a syringe of adrenaline. The second he jabbed it into the side of David’s neck, he jerked, thrashing like a fish on a line. Jackson laughed. “And welcome back to your own personal hell. Fingers or toes?”
“Fingers.” Una wrinkled her nose. “Feet are disgusting.”
For the next half an hour, the pair of them picked O’Hara apart, piece by piece, filling him with adrenaline every time he got too close to the edge. But he was dying. His blood pooled over the floor beneath him like a morbid mirror, reflecting the lights and a grizzly version of an already ugly scene.
“Enough,” I said when Jackson removed his last finger.
His hands were now stumps, the blood running down his arms and over his chest like some morbid fountain. His head hung limply, legs buckling. I gripped his chin and slapped his cheek, forcing him to look at me through half-closed eyes.
“You killed my son,” he gasped, the words muffled by his swollen lips and undoubtedly broken jaw.
He was right. We’d killed his son, and he’d tried to kill Tommy, and if I were logical right now, I’d try to stop the cycle of blood, but I wasn’t logical. He’d tried to kill Tommy, and I didn’t give a fuck what had led to that. This man would pay for his grave misjudgment of coming after me and mine.
“I did, and now I’m going to kill you.” I held out my hand, and Jackson placed a knife in it. I’d usually shoot him, but I wanted to look him in the eye and see the very moment when his worthless life left him. I placed the blade to his throat.