Page 46 of Reaper’s Wrath

“Money goes missing, you need to speak the fuck up.” My thunderous words echo through the room. I can’t afford to doubt my men.

“Yes, sir. I will. I’m so sorry, sir.”

Irritation twists my face into a grimace because I’m sure he’ll speak up next time, but that’s not enough. This life is one of consequences. Missing money and failure to come clean about what happened are offenses that can’t go unpunished.

I steal a glance at Isa, who is watching the show unfold with wide eyes, then go behind the bar and grab a cutting board.

“Come here, Pete.”

He hurries over. If he thinks we’re about to share a drink and toast to a better tomorrow, he’s sorely mistaken. I won’t take his entire hand, as would have happened had he stolen the money. This time, he’ll get away with a warning.

I draw out my karambit blade and point it toward him as I speak. “You run into an issue in the future, you speak the fuck up.”

He nods rigorously.

“Good, now decide which pinky you can do without and put your hand on the board.”

A shudder wracks his entire body as a sob fights to break free. It takes him a second, but he eventually puts his trembling hand on the wooden cutting board.

This isn’t the job for a karambit. A butcher’s knife from the kitchen would be better suited, but I don’t feel like spending the time to get one. I adjust his hand so that only the pinky is on the board—don’t need to take more than I intend—then sever the digit with one swift chop before he can fully panic.

Pete releases a pitiful yelp, his face draining to a ghostly white. I use a bar rag to wrap his hand, then level him with one more stare.

“No more fuckups.” I wait until he nods, then pat his back. “Go find Pavlos and have him stitch you up.”

Andreas helps support Pete as the two hurry away, and Drake follows. When I lift my gaze to Isa, she has turned away with a hand clamped over her mouth.

I suppose I should have considered her recent bout of seasickness. It’s too late for that.

I take what’s left of Pete’s pinky to Florin’s tank and drop the digit into the water. It coasts slowly to the bottom where my magnificent eel emerges at the scent of blood. I sense Isa join me at the tank.

“I’ve never seen an eel like that,” she muses quietly, absorbed in watching the ribbon-like flow of Florin’s body glide through the water after gulping the morsel and taking a lap around her tank.

“She’s a Japanese dragon. They’re not easy to get.”

“Did they train her to eat people, or did you do that? I can’t imagine that’s her instinctive preference.” The underlying jab in her comment is a relief. She can’t be overly disgusted with me if she’s giving me a hard time.

“I’m afraid that’s all me. A flesh-eating eel makes a bold statement.”