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“Family is the most—”
At my godfather’s lame attempt, I laugh. It’s harsh and sardonic, causing another scared whimper to leave the men. “Save that sanctimonious drivel for someone who buys it, Henry. We both know it’s bullshit.”
“Agreed, but he is my only son.” That I can understand. The need for a man to have a male heir, someone to take over. “Spare him and I’ll pay for the damages myself. Buy the forgiveness of your client.”
“What else?” I take the few remaining steps between myself and Michael, his son. His eyes are on mine, throat bobbing as words fail to escape. True fear has a way of paralyzing people, and their basic motor functions become nonexistent. “Because you’ll be paying me every last cent either way.”
“What do you want?”
“Blood.” My reply is automatic, and so is my hand as I lash out, cutting a jagged line down Michael’s forearm. His scream curls around the room—penetrates every square inch and then breaks his father’s heart. At once, my lips stretch into a wide smile as a soothing calmness settles over my limbs.
Their pain brings peace.
Beside him, the wannabe blackmailer fights against his bindings. He winces but doesn’t stop moving as the steel around his wrist cuts the skin there. “This is a mistake! Please, I’ll never say another word about—”
Javier backhands him with the butt of his gun. “Silence.”
“Malcolm, please. Don’t do this to our family.” Henry’s voice rings through, cutting off the pathetic pleading of his son’s friend. Same low-life punk that thought he could blackmail me. “Discipline them, but don’t kill my son.”
“I’ve learned my lesson,” Michael adds, face tight with pain. “I’ll do whatever you want...fix this...but please...no more.”
“Interesting.” Blood flows from the wound, dripping down and onto the concrete floor. It pools near the center—follows the small slope down and into the drain I had the foresight to add into the room’s design when I remodeled the bank. This is the lowest floor, two below what the actual building plans show.
“Okay.” Once more, I punish him, this time sinking the blade of my knife deep into his thigh. My fingers manipulate the steel tip, twisting it as I tear through muscle. Crimson splatters all over my white shirt, ruining another garment.
Michael’s sobs turn into a loud scream as I pull the knife from his flesh. He writhes, bowing as he tries to move away from me.
In the background I hear his father’s outrage, revel in his pleading, but it’s still not enough. I want more.
More blood. More destruction. More compensation for my time.
Within my rage, there is also the compulsion to teach this boy a lesson he will never forget. Prevent him from ever doing this again—save his family both the embarrassment and grief.
“Untie him, Javier, and bring over a chair,” I instruct, taking a few steps forward and over to the other man. A man who’s currently giving in to his panic. That fight or flight response that is coded deep into our DNA. That helps people survive disastrous situations.
He won’t be as lucky.
Javi unlocks Michael’s handcuffs and lets him fall to the floor: a crumpled, bleeding mess. The sound of a chair scraping against the floor follows, and it’s loud within this space. Heightens the anxiety.
“Get up and sit,” Javier instructs, standing over Michael. “Show some appreciation for Mr. Asher’s hospitality.”
A few men in the room chuckle and I hold a hand up, effectively shutting them up. While Javier’s words are funny, now is not the time to give in to amusement.
“My leg—”
“Isn’t broken,” I interrupt, not bothering to look back. “Shut the fuck up and move.”
“Michael, I swear to Christ! Do as he says,” his father pleads, choking on his own desperation. That parental urge to take care of his offspring. It’s instinctual. A deep-seated need that I can understand—respect—even if it means shit at the end of the day.
It didn’t change the disaster his son’s stupidity caused.
Leaving Javier to accommodate our guest, I focus wholly on the other one. “Name?”
“Please, I…son of a bitch!” he howls, body cringing back as I slice through the back of his right ankle, then his left. It’s a shallow cut. Just the first of many.
“Name?” I ask once more, the tip of my blade slowly sawing back and forth over the back of each calf—going lower with each cut until the sharp edge slices over the first. Just enough to hurt. For him to slowly begin to drip down all over my floor.
“I told you my name that day inside your office.” Another lie.
