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And it will always be him.
22
XANDER
"Jesus. Can you please sit down?" I grumble from across the room.
Alec rolls his eyes and clambers over my feet to stride over to Knox, who is standing by the windows, watching the men outside.
It's a cloudy day, which is perfect, really. It matches my mood perfectly. Because enough has quite literally become enough. We're having a meeting with Sandro, and he's running late as usual.
"Let's bet he arrives an hour late." Declan holds out his hand, thumb facing me. I run a hand through my hair and glare at him.
I glower at him. "Is this a fucking joke to you, Declan? You choose this one moment to fucking laugh?"
It's not his fault I'm pissed. It's Sandro's, and today, I'll teach him a lesson. I've been waiting twenty minutes already.
"I'm interested in the bet." Knox turns towards us and walks to the table where he takes his seat and, as always, pours me a glass of whiskey along with his.
"Good. Five hundred dollars says he's an hour late."
Knox leans over and clasps his thumb to Declan's. "An hour thirty minutes for a thousand dollars."
I run a frustrated hand through my hair and lean into my chair. I hope it rains. The lake in the back will be teeming with water. Maybe I'll go for a swim with the thunder rumbling above, the lightning flashing in my eyes.
"You two just lost. He's here."
Good. I sit up and flip my gun from my waist, blow at its cylinder, and place it squarely on the table. I want it to be the first thing he sees when he steps into the room.
He's coming along with most of the Masters. The men who do the grassroots work, so they say.
They dispense the drugs, get my money, and make sure it's complete. They're my men. And today, I'm making sure they will continue to be.
"Take a seat, Alec."
Alec returns to the table and sits. Ryder sticks his head into the door and nods in our signal. The men are complete. Perfect.
"Make sure Sandro comes in first."
I have a feeling there's something off about him. It's either the Russians have bought him out, or he's weaker than I thought. Either way, the Russians are still too fucking close for comfort.
The old saying applies: if you want something done, do it yourself.
The sound of multiple footsteps comes thundering down the hallway, and then the sound of Sandro's voice on a harsh laugh. I make sure he's the one who steps into the room first, then I pick the gun off the table and blow his kneecap out.
The sound of the bullet ripping out is a loud, startling clap of thunder, just as I intended, and it has all their attention, though it is too late for the one whom it was intended to escape.
He falls to the floor with a hoarse cry, holding onto his leg where red is already spurting from. He lifts hate-filled eyes to me, and I stare down at him blankly before lifting my eyes to point the gun at the men who are still staring down at him, various degrees of shock in their equally blank eyes.
I smile somberly. "Come sit." I turn a glare at Sandro. "You too, Sandro."
The men settle around the table, away from my brothers, who have taken their seats around me. Alec is on my right, and Declan and Knox are both on my left.
Sandro wails again as he tries to place force on his legs to push up. His face is dotted with sweat, pain, and anger smeared across the red expense of flesh.
I nod at Ryder, who helps him to his feet and leads him to that table, handing him a batch of bandages to tie across the seeping wound. "That was rather unnecessary, Xander Amory."
I smile again. Not at him but at the men ranged around me. "I understand. But a lesson needed to be taught. And you're the scapegoat." I point the gun at Enzo, his ragged red hair falling around his face. "Tomorrow it might be you." I point across the table. "Or you."
