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I nudge the piece-of-shit rental up to eighty-five to blur the memories, but nothing’s shifting them tonight. The last time I touched her is still crystal clear in my mind: her soft lips and how they moulded so perfectly to mine; the feel of her pussy around my dick as I made a home in the deepest parts of her; how I took her like an animal, so she’d never feel another man inside her again, no matter how many times she’d be forced to take them.
An hour later, I’m pulling into an abandoned swimming pool complex on the edge of the town. The car park is empty, lit only by a blood moon that’s staining the broken windows and concrete fascia of the derelict building.
All is quiet.
All is still.
But this is Viper’s nest, where calm is a veil and silence a prelude to anarchy. There have been eyes on me from the second I parked up, and when I exit the vehicle and make my way toward the entrance, the state-of-the-art security cameras swivel their metal heads towards me with interest.
I can hear faint screams coming from inside as I climb the front steps. Rumour has it the pool’s water was drained long ago and replaced by blood. Since Viper came to town, sexual crime has hit an all-time low, and accused offenders have a habit of disappearing before the judge sets a trial date.
Glancing up at the cameras, I hold my arms out, turning a slow circle to show off the gun I’m barely concealing, then suppressing a small smile as the door clicks open. Trust is made in a moment, and it can last a lifetime if respected enough.
In a show of my own good faith, I pull my Glock from its holster and release the clip, letting it hit the ground with a mutedthud.
Entering what used to be the reception area, I follow a corridor of broken glass and debris, with the stench of fear and stale chlorine growing stronger with every step. I’m aware of moving shadows behind me now—of boots crunching the same glass I walked on, but on a five-second delay.
The screams turn to helpless whimpers. Pushing open another set of doors, I find myself in the deep end. One side is lined with wooden bleachers, where a couple of tough-looking men are playing cards and smoking—their voices loud, and their knives and handguns lying discarded next to them. They look up as I enter but their conversation never breaks.
The blue tiled walls of the pool are more dirt than grout. There’s a beast of a man standing close to the edge. He’s turned away from me, his shirtless back blocking out the source of all the whimpering, his dishevelled black hair tinged blue in the sodium light. From the nape of his neck to the low-slung waistband of his jeans, his skin is a green and black canvas of rage and sworn retribution—of grinning skulls, crushed roses, and a mean-looking snake rising up from the ashes of a London skyline with its fangs bared.
He’s twice the size of the kid I met all those years ago. Then again, so am I. Hate replaced youth and grew us into the men we are today.
It’s the two missing fingers on his left hand that give him away the most.
“Nice place you got here, Danny. Ever thought of redecorating?”
He stiffens at the sound of my voice.
“‘Danny’ died a long time ago in a basement, Lastra. It’s ‘Viper’ now.” He dips his chin over his shoulder to give me the once over, his upper lip curling at my crumpled dress suit. His green eyes glinting twice as bright as the knife in his hand.
My chest tightens.
Ada eyes.
“Did you take a wrong turn on the way to yourprison afterparty, mafia boy? Monaco’s a couple hundred miles away from here.” He gestures to his right, his blade spilling drops of crimson all over the floor next to his biker boots.
“Can’t call a place a home when your heart’s somewhere else.”
There’s a long pause, and then he laughs. A twisted kind of laugh.My laugh.
That’s another thing these past fourteen years have done to us. It’s turned our humour into missiles with missing parts. Nothing works right anymore. Teenage egos got switched to aggression when we were forced out of our city.
“Heard about Zaccaria. You do that?”
“Yep.”
“Figured you’d be swinging past on your way to London.”
“Didn’t tattoo the inside of your brain to shit too, then.”
Barking out another laugh, he steps aside to reveal what’s been making all the noise. There’s a man, gagged and bound, and shivering on his knees at the edge of the diving board. His face is a state. The dirty rag in his mouth is soaked with spit and tears. His terrified eyes fix on mine, and I smile back coldly. He’ll find no salvation from me.
“Worried I might change my mind, Viper? Is that why you sent me the silent welcome committee?”
“Huh?”
“I heard their footsteps when I came in.”
