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I slot the shotgun under my armpit and raise the barrel, willing my hands to remain steady. “Not before I blow your head off.”
Both sets of eyes spin to me, and I feel an eerie sense of calm as I straighten my aim on William’s chest. “Step the fuck back from my husband.”
His eyes narrow in disbelief and his mouth falls open and closed with a lost response. His stunned silence is all Finn needs to leap up and knock the gun from his hand. Their arms tangle with each other as they grapple, elbows and knees flying. My mind is racing a mile a minute trying to figure out how to help but knowing I don’t have time to sit and think.
I just act, my need to see Finn safe loud and blaring, driving my movements. I close the distance and spin the rifle around to wail him in the back of the head with the butt. He goes limp, collapsing to the side like dead weight.
Finn scuttles over to the pistol on the floor before dashing to me and yanking the shotgun from my hands. He checks the chamber, discarding two cartridges before pocketing them and throwing the empty weapon on the bed. He rounds on me, tucking the pistol in his waistband and clutching my face between his hands.
“Jesus Christ, Ef, do you even know how to use that thing?”
“No.” I exhale shakily. “Thank god I didn’t have to.”
He releases a laugh mingled with a sigh and tucks my head into his chest, “Fucking mad woman.”
We work together to tie William to one of our wood dining chairs. He wakes up halfway through, and I get the pleasure of holding his own gun to his head—sans bullets after Finn insisted I wouldn’t be touching a loaded weapon until he teaches me how to “not fucking kill myself with one.” William scowls bitterly but stopped spewing obscenities once Finn threatened to cut his tongue out.
“I’ll be right back.” Finn gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze before walking out the door, returning shortly with a hunting knife.
William’s eyes widen as Finn sits down on the couch next to the chair, toying with the tip of the blade with his finger. “Which hand was it?” Finn slowly raises his head to level me with his stony stare. “Which hand did he have around your neck?” My stomach drops with his line of questioning, but I can’t deny the sick thrill that races up my spine too.
“That one,” I say when he points the blade at his left hand.
“Very well.” He stands and pulls out his switchblade from his pocket. My mouth waters remembering that the last time I saw it was when he used it to cut off my wedding dress before chasing and thoroughly fucking me like a wild beast in the forest. William’s wrist is tied to the arm of the chair, and Finn pushes the handle of the hunting knife into his palm so his fingers splay open on the wood.
I watch his breathing deepen as he looks on, frightened, both of us in suspense to what Finn is going to do next. Finn stabs the switchblade through William’s middle finger and into the wood, like a viper sinking in his fangs, with a blood curdling scream from him. I clutch my hand to my mouth and bile crawls up my throat at the same time sparks of vengeful intrigue shock my system.
“I don’t like anyone laying their hands on my wife, Campbell.” His voice drops to a low and dark timber. “I don’t like it at all.”
Finn notches the hunting knife at his wrist, and he begins to scream, plead, wail. My shoulders roll down my back and I set my jaw, preparing to watch a man be relieved of his hand.
As Finn slowly cuts into his flesh, I think he’s purposely dragging it out. But then, to sounds of agony, Finn begins to work the tip of the blade under the slit at his wrist and lifts the skin from his palm.
Completely undisturbed by the ear-shattering screams being torn from William’s throat, Finn continues his bloody craft. Methodically, he flays every inch of skin, peeling it away from the muscle on his palm and every finger until it dangles like a fleshy glove around the switchblade still staked through his finger.
Finn straightens back up after hunching over his work and rolls his neck as if stretching from a nap. Wordlessly, he saunters over to the kitchenette and begins washing his hand, along with the blade.
My feet remain glued to the floorboards, and I can’t seem to tear my eyes away from the raw, meaty lump dripping blood over the chair arm and onto the floor. William is slumped in the chair, sweaty and pale. His eyelids flutter, and his breathing is an odd mix between heavy and shallow. His similarities to Hudson are exceptionally striking at this moment. I can’t help but wonder if Hudson’s hand would look just like this skinned.
I hear the faucet shut off and watch Finn walk casually back over to me, drying his hands on a white towel before looking up. The darkness in his eyes slams into me but it doesn’t scare me. It compels me because I know its depths. Like the serenity and wonder that accompanies the terrifying chill you get looking into the black of the deepest ocean. The deeper the darkness the fiercer the love.
He pulls the handgun from his waistband and holds it out to me, handle first. “I know I said you weren’t touching a gun until I taught you how to use one, but if you want it, the kill is yours.”
I look at the gun, then at the bleeding mess of a man in the chair. I turn back to Finn, letting a small smile peeking through. “I have a better idea.”
1It’s Sunday, ten a.m. Which means my father will be having espresso and playing chess at Nonna Rosa’s after mass. When we arrive, the front door is unlocked as restaurant staff are still coming and going with morning deliveries before opening in a few hours. We barge in, Finn keeping William moving with a gun between his shoulder blades as he shuffles holding his bandaged hand.
I used to love coming here as a kid. It felt like family, the waiters and cooks spending time at our table and always bringing out my favorite pasta without ever having to order. For dessert, when my parents got espresso, us kids got vanilla ice cream in the cutest glass cups in small, melon-ball scoops. I used to like stacking the little globes into a snowman while my brothers would try to fit them all in their mouths at one time.
But as I grew up and realized the insidious underbelly of the place, it lost its charm. Men would disappear into the walk-in and come out hours later beaten and bloody. There were always groups of young soldiers who’d look at me with lecherous eyes and crude remarks as if somehow that would get them their boss’s daughter. This is a sanctuary for bad men, but it’s never been for me.
Today, I don’t feel any of that trepidation or unease of the hunted. Instead, I walk in like the hunter. I head straight for the walk-in freezer and am not surprised to see a fresh-faced recruit standing in the back.
I look him in the eyes and order, “Open it.” His gaze bounces between me and the men behind me with a concerned and indecisive look. So I give him a little help deciding, I grab William’s wrist and he groans in pain as I wave his bandaged hand at the guard. “Open the fucking hatch or you’ll be my husband’s next craft project.”
“M—Ma’am,” he sputters and hurriedly gets to lifting the floor panel.
I’ve never been one to make a scene, constantly shrinking myself to fit neatly in the background. But being the center of Finneas Fox’s world has made me no longer content to stay in the shadows. So I’ll make a scene…and a fucking entrance. I push William to the top of the steps and kick him in the back of the knees to send him tumbling down.
