Page 94 of Sinner’s Torment

“Your father,” I continued, my voice never rising above that same cold, controlled tone, “murdered my father. His own brother. Shot him in the back and made it look like a rival club hit. All so he could take control of the Silver Shadows. All so he could be president. You want to talk about family being destroyed? About lives being ruined? That’s where it started, Stone. With your father’s ambition and his willingness to kill his own blood to get what he wanted.”

I released his hair and drove my knee into his stomach, feeling the air rush out of him in a pained wheeze. He collapsed to his knees, gasping, trying to suck in breath that wouldn’t come. I circled him slowly, methodically, like a predator stalking wounded prey.

“And then,” I said, my voice still that same terrible calm, “you fucking set me up. You, and that fucking pussy-whipped brother of yours, orchestrated a federal agent’s death and made sure I took the fall for it. Sent me to prison for life. Took five years of my life away from me. Five years I’ll never get back.”

Stone tried to speak, tried to say something, but all that came out was a wet, gurgling sound. Blood was pooling in his mouth, making it hard for him to form words. I didn’t care. I wasn’t interested in what he had to say. I was done listening.

“When I got out,” I continued, driving my boot into his side and feeling more ribs crack under the impact, “I went to the clubhouse. I walked right in, and I beat your fucking ass within an inch of your life. With my bare hands. In front of all my brothers. In front of everyone who’d stood by and let you fucking destroy me. And you know what? It felt good. It felt right. Because that’s what you deserved. That’s what you all deserved.”

Stone was on the floor now, curled into a fetal position, his arms wrapped around his head in a futile attempt to protect himself. But I wasn’t aiming for his head. Not yet. I wanted him to feel every blow. Wanted him to understand, in the most visceral way possible, what it meant to cross me. What it meant to threaten my family.

“Your brother Remington?” I said, crouching down beside him, my voice dropping to something almost conversational. “He died because he was stupid enough to align himself with the fucking Death Dogs. Because he chose greed over loyalty, over doing what was right. That’s not on me, Carrington. That’s on him. That’s on all of you. You sick greedy fucks.”

I stood up and drove my boot into his kidney, the impact making his entire body convulse. He screamed—a high, keening sound that was barely human—and I felt nothing. No pity. No remorse. No hesitation.

“You want to blame me for your life being shit?” I asked, my voice still that same cold, emotionless tone. “Fine. Blame me. But understand this: everything that happened to you, everything that happened to your family, it all started with your father’s choices. With his greed. With his willingness to destroy anyone who stood in his way. I didn’t ruin your life, Carrington. Your father did. And you’re just too plain fucking stupid to see it.”

Stone tried to roll away, tried to crawl toward the door, but I caught him by the ankle and dragged him back. He was sobbing now, the sound wet and broken, his body trembling with pain and fear. Good. Let him feel what Brandy felt. Let him understand what it meant to be helpless, to be at someone else’s mercy, to know that death was coming and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

“You took my daughter,” I said, my voice finally rising, finally allowing some of the rage I’d been holding back to seep through. “You beat her. You terrorized her. You threatened my grandchild. And you thought—you actually fucking thought—that I would let that slide? That I would negotiate? That I would show you mercy?”

I grabbed him by the throat and lifted him off the floor, slamming him against the wall with enough force to crack the plaster. His eyes were wide now, bulging, his hands clawing at my wrist in a desperate attempt to break free. But I was stronger. I’d always been stronger. And I’d spent thirty-three years waiting for this moment.

“I don’t give a shit about your excuses,” I said, my face inches from his, my voice a low, deadly growl. “I don’t give a shit about your pain. I don’t give a shit about anything except making sure you never threaten my family again.”

I released his throat and let him drop to the floor, then drove my fist into his face one more time. The impact was devastating—I felt his cheekbone shatter under my knuckles, felt the give of flesh and bone, felt the warm spray of blood across my hand. Stone’s head snapped to the side, his body going limp, and for a moment I thought he was dead.

But he wasn’t. Not yet. His chest was still rising and falling, shallow and labored, his breathing wet and ragged. He was dying, though. I could see it in the way his eyes had lost focus, in the way blood was pooling beneath him, in the way his body had stopped trying to fight back.

I stood over him, my chest heaving, my knuckles split and bleeding and felt... nothing. No satisfaction. No relief. No sense of justice finally being served. Just emptiness. Just the cold, hollow realization that this moment—this reckoning I’d been building toward for half my life—didn’t change anything. Didn’t bring my father back. Didn’t give me back those five years in prison. Didn’t erase the pain and fear my family had endured.

But it did end the threat. It did ensure that Stone would never hurt anyone I loved ever again. And that was enough.

I crouched down beside him one last time, my voice dropping to something almost gentle. “This is for my father, you son of a bitch,” I said quietly. “For my wife. For my kids. For Brandy. For everyone you and your family ever fucking hurt.”

Then I wrapped my hands around his throat and squeezed.

Stone’s eyes went wide, his hands coming up to claw at mine, but there was no strength left in him. No fight. Just the desperate, animal instinct to survive even when survival was no longer possible. I watched the light fade from his eyes, watched his body go still, watched the last breath leave his lungs in a wet, rattling exhale.

And then it was over.

I released his throat and stood up slowly, my entire body aching, my hands trembling slightly from the adrenaline crash. Behind me, I heard movement—Mercy stepping into the room, Smokey and Dutch following. They looked at Stone’s body, then at me, their expressions unreadable.

“It’s done,” I said simply.

Mercy nodded. “Yeah. It’s done.”

Smokey moved forward, crouching beside Stone’s body to check for a pulse even though we all knew there wouldn’t be one. After a moment, he looked up and shook his head. “He’s gone.”

“Good,” Dutch said, his voice carrying the weight of decades of loyalty and understanding. “Fucker had it coming.”

I looked down at my hands—at the blood coating my knuckles, at the split skin and bruised bones—and felt the weight finally lift from my shoulders. It wasn’t redemption. It wasn’t forgiveness. It wasn’t even justice, not really. But it was closure. It was the end of a chapter that had defined too much of my life for too long.

“We need to get out of here,” Mercy said, his voice cutting through my thoughts. “The assault’s winding down, but we need to move before law enforcement shows up.”

I nodded, then turned toward the door. Toward my daughter. Toward the family I’d spent three decades protecting. Toward the life I’d built away from all this violence and chaos and death.

“Let’s go,” I said.