He chokes and tries to look anywhere but at me. Beside us, Misha casually cocks his gun like he’s stretching his fingers, and the sharp metallic sound snaps Nathan back into reality. “Belladonna Syndicate,” he whispers, his voice barely holding together. “It was the Belladonna Syndicate.”
My vision goes hot and narrow.
Of course it was them. Leonardo’s rivals. The ones trying to sink their claws deeper into the hockey rings, the ones who recruit ex-pros like livestock and pay for sabotage when they can’t win fairly.
But the only part that matters right now is this: Nathan wasn’t blackmailed. He wasn’t threatened. He wasn’t forced. He was paid. Paid to make Julian throw the game. Paid to smile for the camera while Julian ruined himself. Paid to stand back and let a kid take the fall for both of them.
I lean down until our foreheads nearly touch, my voice dropping. “So they offered you money to make sure Julian fucked up?”
He sobs once, short and sharp. “Y-yes.”
“And you took it.”
“I—I didn’t know it would get that bad—”
I slam my fist into the wall beside his head, hard enough to make the drywall crack. Nathan screams into the space between us. “You didn’t know?” I roar quietly. “You didn’t know they’d destroy him? You didn’t know the league would use him as a scapegoat? You didn’t know you’d let him take the fall while you went home to your warm bed and your perfect life?”
He’s shaking like he’s sitting in ice water, sweat beading at his temples while his eyes dart to Misha—mistake—because Misha immediately grins at him, slow and feral, like he’s already imagining what Nathan’s bones will sound like when they break.
“Please,” Nathan whispers, his voice cracking as the words start tumbling over each other in a panicked rush. “Please—I’m sorry—I didn’t think—they said he’d get a fine, just a suspension—”
I smile, not kindly and not human, the kind of smile a butcher gives right before the blade comes down. “And you were willing to take their money and gamble his life on it.”
He breaks then—visibly and completely—sobs ripping out of him in panicked bursts as whatever fragile composure he had left finally shatters.
“That wasn’t blackmail,” I say, leaning in until he has no choice but to look at me, until there’s nowhere else for his gaze to run. “That was a transaction.”
He whimpers.
“You didn’t lose anything when Julian fell.” I let my thumb drag across his cheek, slow and cruel. “But he lost everything because of you.” I stand slowly and deliberately, the chair creaking under him as I rise while the room suddenly feels too small for what’s about to happen.
Behind me, Misha cracks his knuckles. “Boss?” he asks, his voice low. “You ready?”
I look down at Nathan—the man who sold Julian for pocket change—and feel something settle in my chest like the first inhale after drowning. “Yeah,” I say quietly. “I’m ready.”
I reach into the inner pocket of my jacket and pull out one of my knives—the slim one, the one with the black handle and the edge honed thin enough to whisper. Nathan sees the glint of steel and loses whatever pathetic self-control he had left. His whole body starts shaking, legs rattling against the chair, breath coming out in these sharp, squeaking bursts like he’s trying to inhale himself into a different dimension.
I’ve seen men beg before, I’ve seen them piss themselves and I’ve seen them cry, but there’s something particularly pathetic about watching a man who destroyed someone else’s life suddenly realize his own isn’t worth much in comparison.
He tries to talk—tries to plead—his mouth opening wide with that wet, choking sound, and I slap the tape back over his lips before he can form a single syllable, pressing it down hard and sealing him shut.
“Save it,” I tell him evenly. “I don’t need to hear you scream to know you’re sorry.”
His scream still leaks through the tape, high and useless.
I grab his left hand, and he jerks it away on instinct, but he’s tied tight with nowhere to go, so I force his wrist flat against the armrest and spread his fingers wide while his wedding ring glints under the shitty motel light.
Ah.Perfect. “That one,” I murmur, almost to myself. “The one you use to touch your wife. And the one you used to touch him.”
His eyes explode wide as horror ripples through him in a visible wave, and he tries to wrench away again, his body twisting and feet kicking, but Misha stands from the bed at the exact same moment, walks over, and drops one heavy palm on Nathan’s shoulder, the sheer weight of it stopping him cold.
“Hold still,” Misha says, almost bored. “Makes less mess.”
Nathan shrieks behind the tape while I place the blade right under the wedding band, letting him feel the cold kiss of steel so he understands exactly what’s about to happen. “This isn’t punishment,” I tell him quietly. “This is symbolism.” Then I cut, the knife sharp enough to glide through skin and tendon before meeting bone with a satisfying, crunchy resistance.
Nathan’s whole body convulses, his spine arching violently off the chair as a scream rips out of him so hard the tape strains against his mouth, the sound wet, primal, almost inhuman while blood spurts hot across my knuckles—bright red, stupid, pointless life leaking out of a hand that ruined someone better.
The severed finger drops to the motel carpet with a soft thud while the wedding ring rolls once, then twice, before finally stopping in the cheap light, which feels oddly fitting.
