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He pauses and dares grace me with a smile that mimics mine.
“Only victors.”
I can already taste it.
Victory after Carnage, Havoc, Obsession, and Vengeance.
A quartet of events that seeks liberation in a world of chaos.
“You know, if you weren’t being fought after by every model agency or selling paintings for millions as a hobby, I’d say you should become an author,” I offer with a tone that replicates pride. “Write some dark mafia shit. Heck, write about our lives so we can autograph it.”
“Can’t be fiction if it’s based on real life, Zander,” he reminds me with a wink, though I see what’s hidden in the depths of those eyes.
A flicker of machination.
Something he’ll think about.
“16:15.” It’s the way Dom’s voice thrums with fury that steals our recognition. “Fuck…”
“You think if I call Kian, he’d come quick enough to revive one of these cunts?” I offer the possibility, though my fingers are itching to continue to spin the blade handle than typing upon a glass screen, requesting one’s ‘revival’ services.
None of these weak hoes are worth the trouble, but we’re about to be Desperate Kings of Favors if we don’t figure something out now.
Ares’ silence proves it’s a ‘no’ for him.
Dom is pacing again, but his eyes are scanning the bodies all over the floor. Some are most certainly dead—oops, my bad—while others will be knocked out for quite a while.
For their own good.
That’s one of the reasons why Ares was keeping his eyes closed. It ‘dings’ in my mind like a flick of a lightbulb that glows diligently with purpose.
“You were listening to make sure all these bitches are either dead or in deep sleep, weren’t you?” I bring up and look at Ares with widened eyes. I love solving shit like this, especially when not prompt.
“We don’t need a mouse in our midst,” he mutters, trying to hide his disappointment.It’s failing miserably.“I’ll just have to pull a few?—”
A loud grunt follows with a bang at the wooden door that splinters in pieces thanks to the intrusive weight that comes crashing down before our very eyes.
The victim now lies upon the remnants of the wooden door, the ‘borrowed’ guardsman fighting for breath while trying to stop the multiple stab wounds on his chest from further bleeding out.
My eyes immediately dart to Dom, who’s frozen mid-stride.
Not good.
He’s not in an ‘I will fuck you up’ type of mood. Not even close. A dangerous gamble to play when we’re potentially about to be ambushed.
Which is why I react before I think.
“Zander, don’t?—”
It’s too late for warnings.
Only slayings.
My knife is not only out of my grasp but is darting to the individual waltzing into our territory as the clouds of dust begin to fade and reveal who just busted our door—and the useless guard.
I’m already excited to see the piercing blade become one with the individual’s chest.
Until they do the unexpected.
