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I shouldn’t care.
I really shouldn’t.
But the image makes my pulse race and my hands tighten.
I can’t lie to myself, I don’t want to see her dead.
“Fecking asshole.” Sean spits on the man tied to the chair in front of us. Sean has a penchant for causing damage as do Declan and I.
The man in the basement today is a dealer who tried to fuck us over. Sometimes they do that, rarely if they know what’s good for them, but still, it happens.
When it happens they learn their lesson quickly, and if they want to live, they will never make the same mistake. But this asshole was caught associating with an Italian. He was selling to someone in the fucking Providence Mafia, and Declan is out for blood.
He uses a small knife to place a jagged cut down the man's arm. The guy is naked save for a pair of boxers that are now stained red.
When Declan’s done with his cut, Sean goes next. He picks up a new serrated knife from the metal cart and goes to work cutting down the guy's abdomen. I go next, and we continue like that.
Like it’s a game of who can make him scream the loudest, bleed the most. He’s part of a fucked up ritual, owing blood to the knives in our hands. Each scream from him is like a point scored.
We don’t stop until he’s covered in red and pleading for death. Only then does Declan make his final cut, a thin and deep slice across his neck.
Even with his death and knowing he suffered, Declan is still riled up.
“I want to kill them all.” He mutters, stripping his now bloody shirt from his body and throwing it in a pile. Another man, Kegan, will come to burn all the remains and wash out the basement with bleach until there’s no trace of the guy ever being here.
I don’t even know what the asshole's name was.
“We will.” Sean replies, scrubbing his hands down in the industrial sink.
My own jeans are spotted with flecks of red and my t-shirt is a mess. I need to change. I need to cool off. I’m supposed to meet Gemma in three hours and I’m wired from the kill, I can’t see her like this.
Like a cold blooded murderer.
I need to calm my nerves, shower, become human again—if that’s even possible.
“I’m out.” I tell Declan, I pull a black bomber jacket over my shirt, covering the blood as best as possible. I’ll head to my apartment to clean up.
Declan eyes me suspiciously. “You going to dinner at Da’s?”
“No.” I tell him. “I’m gone this weekend.”
“Where?” he asks. Always the nosy little shit.
“Going to meet a supplier in New York.” I tell him. “For the bar.”
Declan and my father are mostly concerned about the illegal side of business. They leave the legitimate side to me, which means they don’t know shit about how it works. Declan couldn’t name a single supplier unless they were connected to the mob.
“Yeah, yeah.” He sighs. “Fine, go.”
“I’ll see you Monday.” I tell him.
Monday, after I’ve gotten my fill of Gemma over the entire weekend.
I picked a new hotel for us to meet at.
A five star boutique hotel in Mansfield off the I-95 with a suite on the top floor. The room boasts a large king bed, rainforest shower, and a jacuzzi tub.
I have a brief moment where I wonder how many nicer hotels Gemma has stayed in. The girl looks materialistic, covered in designer clothes and purses. I wonder how much money is put into her appearance. Is this suite good enough for her?
