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Jimmy and Butch stand coolly and still, observing the chaos like fucking mafia kings.
The fat fuck flailing around in front of me howls, his hands clawing at the wire shredding his flesh. Blood drips over his glistening gold chains and slithers down his shirt like little snakes before splattering onto the floor.
Jimmy steps forward like the reaper himself, and I make certain not to kill Marco before he can hear what he has to say. "Have you ever had blood drained from your body before? I often give blood, I'm that type of man. But I've never been drained of it. I hear it's quite a spectacular sensation. Your heart rate becomes frantic. Head beats like a drum. You lose all senses. My pretty face will be the last one you see." He moves in closer. "If you tell me where they landed, I will give you one life."
I loosen the wire so he can speak. "Trichy," he manages to choke out between bile and blood.
Jimmy leans in and kisses Marco's forehead. "You'll only steal from the Family once." Then he straightens and nods at me. "Remove his head."
Marco lets out a loud howl, his back vibrating on my chest as I saw at his flesh, through his carotid artery, blood blanketing the both of us. He is silenced completely when I sever his vocal cords. I keep rocking the wire from side to side, slicing through muscles and tendons and vessels. I grit my teeth as what he said about Cassidy repeats in my mind. As I think about how he's probably beat one out fantasising about her small tits and petite physique, which, yes, to some, may appear barely legal - he likes them young.
My eyes see red.
I keep sawing.
Once I feel the wire snag on his spine, I drop his body like a sack of potatoes. I taste the fuck's blood in my mouth. Feel it sliding down my forehead and chin. This isn't usually my way. But after spending last night alone with only Cassidy's scent, I don't feel much like myself. So maybe Icancompartmentalise like my brother can.
Maybe.
I look up from the bloodied mess as Paul wails with grief. In my peripherals, I can make out that most of his men are now merely bodies spread out around him. I pull out my gun and shoot between the flaps of Marco's neck, aiming for his exposed, crimson-coated spine.
I finish the job and walk the dripping head over to Paul. When I place it at his feet, the sliced and hacked neck flesh, gummy and wet, slaps the concrete, smearing a wing of blood in front of him.
Falling to his knees, Paul cradles the severed head of his twin as if it were a baby. We all stand by and allow him to grieve.
After a few minutes, his time is up.
"I gave him one life. You. And now, I'd like to offer you the same job," Jimmy says smoothly. "Five men. India. Get my product back."
Tears fall quickly from him. They don't make me roll my eyes; instead, for a moment, they make me glance away. Marco got off easy. Paul, on the other hand, will have to work alongside the very people who killed his men and with me, the one who decapitated his brother in front of his very eyes. It's a reality I would never live. I wouldn't drop to my knees while my brother's murderer breathed the same air as me.
As the car pulls away from the curb, I study every flourish of the cursive writing on my finger, which is now tainted with track lines painted in another man's blood.
Ardent One.
In Latin it means 'to burn'. And she does burn me down to my core. I inhale deeply and exhale even louder. The shrill wailing of screams now gone only seems to make the silence more vivid. More unnatural.
As the car cruises slowly through the streets, its tyres spinning, rolling, its movement becomes rhythmic. The engine hums. Soothes. And I think about hazel freckles. Slouching into the seat, my head drops back against the rest. I close my eyes.
And I see hers full of fear.
Cassidy
The first timeI saw this house, I was in awe of it. Even though its grandeur hasn't dwindled, another feeling holds more prominence - a homey feeling. When I step out from the passenger side, Carter is already there, holding the door open for me as though I am some kind of princess.
I stare up at Casa Butcher. It is hard to believe that the single-liner, brute and boxer, sex god, gym junky, rugby playing Max Butcher also has enough space in his talent toolbox to be. . . creative. I mean, that is what this is. He's an artist. My Max.
Ugh. What can't that man do?
Staring up at it as if for the first time, I take in the steep white walls lit up by external lights and the modernist shape and feel. It's impressive. Not one feature is overlooked; that man likes perfection. That man isperfection.
Grinning to myself, I wander up the steps and through the front door. A man, suited in all black and holding it open, smiles as I move past him.
I wave at him. "Hi."
The Butcher guards are very polite and conservative, almost as though they have very little personality, but I doubt that is the case. They are just professionals.
As I round the sleek black and white kitchen, I see the reflection of the television lights on the hallway walls. Knowing that means one of the boys is awake, I wander down the corridor.
